


Tell it from the mountain

by deleriumofyou



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avvar Inquisitor, Canon Avvar Cultural Norms, Cultural Differences, Elf/Human Relationship(s), F/M, Illiteracy, Non-Canon Avvar Lore, Non-Canon Cultural Norms & References, Non-Canon Elven Cultural Norms, Non-Canon Relationship, Slow Build, Slow Burn, culture clash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-26 01:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 39
Words: 186,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7555096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deleriumofyou/pseuds/deleriumofyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Herald is an Avvar. Everyone panics. </p><p>“She cannot read. She has multiple gods, none of which include the Maker.”<br/>“Andraste was Alamarri. Why not an Avvar as her Herald?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fyrsta

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age and stand to make no profit from this work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't technically Solas/Trevelyan, but the reason for that label comes later and it sort of works out. Promise.
> 
> And other notes - this is starting from the beginning just because there are no canon Avvar Inner Circle perspectives I can siphon off of. I'll be using quotes verbatim in places, but not everywhere so it won't just be regurgitated, and keep in mind that such a vastly different culture will come with its own awkwardness and fun.

The augur said the gods he had consulted had deemed what was happening in the lowlands issue enough to send her - which was fine. She was the oldest of those with magic-blood in the Hold. None of the others had yet been weaned from their gods, and if there was to be a journey to such a place, for reasons even the augur was not completely certain of, then it was best that one who could hear and heed the gods go.

She couldn’t imagine one of the warriors going and getting any useful information, and it was stupid to send an archer - they had too great a need for hunters.

The augur had tasked it to her; it was the will of the gods, and the thane had agreed. “Lowlander business, but it always comes back to Avvar. Find out what you will. The gods’ve spoken of their piece, and the augur says they will it, then so must it be. Take supplies and there’s a hart for you. Travel quickly. _Don’t let the god-forsaken warriors take you to their Tower.”_

So she rode, and rode, and rode for days. She hadn’t been able to read the signs the lowlanders posted, pointing every which way down well-smoothed roads. But she knew what direction she was going; the Lady of the Skies in her night-veil showed her the way through the pictures cast in starlight. Aslaug followed the acrid scent of smoke and saw that this was no raid, not what the augur or the thane described, just fires and bodies piled atop bodies - no one came to collect their dead? - and rich woodlands burned for the sake of being burned.

Wasted. It had left a wide path to follow at least.

The augur had spoken of a vision sent to him of lines of the magic-blooded, and the forsaken ones, marching to a rising stone temple. She saw it, the lines of people and felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. The lowlands felt wrong, they always did, but moreso now - she could not feel her gods near this place. A tremor of fear wormed its way into her heart, even as she dismounted and bade the creature to seek a safe place to wait.

Her gods would not abandon their own so easily. Something was wrong here, so very, very wrong.

Her axe, a gift given from a dwarven merchant who she had traveled with a year past, buried itself in the side of the temple and she climbed. She worried for a moment that the lowlander god may take offense, but judging from the state of the place of his domain, he had more pressing issues than an Avvar woman.

She climbed through an open window, and slunk down as carefully as possible.

Women in white robes and strange hoods - the priestesses of the lowlander god - spoke amongst themselves quietly.

Aslaug followed a side corridor, slinking down, down, further in the depths of the temple. She needed to be close enough to listen, to wait - wait for what? The augur had had no answers for her, the thane was uncertain as to what was even happening in the lowlands, and her gods had left this place. Were they driven off by the lowlander god?

She doubted it for the most part, the gods of Lurkerhold were made of stronger, sterner cloth than the softer ones down below the Frostback. But yet, she could not feel her gods anywhere near her. They had left this place, and in doing so, left her uncertain as to what her task was.

She continued along silently, easily maneuvering in the shadows to hide away from the peering eyes. There was fear here, fear and uncertainty, and while it kept the gods away - it did not keep the corrupted gods from encroaching.

What happened next, Aslaug couldn’t recall exactly. She would remember only the world of dreams and the pieces of fear, pieces of a corrupted god, shaped to look like spiders, that pursued her and another woman. The woman’s hand stretched out - woman, or one of her gods finally come at her plea for help? -

And the world was swallowed by a bright light, Aslaug was engulfed, and she called out to her gods for aid, but no help came and there was no answer.

   
  
...

 

The one known as Cassandra was a fierce one, protective of her god and his followers, but she was in pain that even Aslaug could see, shackled and kneeling as she was in a dungeon. But the woman was as good as her word and led her out until a terrible pain forced her to her knees with a scream.

When it was was over, Aslaug saw it and couldn’t contain her horror when she saw the woman’s meaning in truth.

The sky was rended right in two like a sacrificial goat to an altar but it bled a sickly green and even from across such a distance, Aslaug could feel the onslaught of corrupted gods forcing or being forced into the mortal realm. The Lady of the Skies was bleeding corrupted gods.

“What - what did you lowlanders _do_?” she asked the warrior with a horrified disbelief, but still unable to keep her eyes off the wound in the sky.

Cassandra cleared her throat. “We did nothing," she said with gritted teeth. “It was your doing - somehow.”

Aslaug flinched back. “I would never aim to wound the Lady of the Skies. And that is - I don’t know how that was done.” She turned to look at the warrior. “I was there. Listening. Watching. That was all I was tasked to do. Not - not. Gods. The Lady is bleeding everywhere.”

The warrior spoke after a time. “Come. We make for the forward camp. You will need to, possibly, have to use that mark on your hand for something. It is only a theory. But that is more than we had before.” She led the way.

Aslaug looked down at her left hand. Green crackled and spat angrily.

Magic that wasn’t hers, forced or given, it was still angry at being in her. She could feel that much. Like pouring too much water into too little a vessel. It wanted to leak out. And she couldn’t feel any of the gods around to ask for guidance.

Cassandra the warrior killed corrupted gods, demons, quickly and with an ease that testified to her training against them.

When Aslaug used a spell to banish one of them, Cassandra pointed her sword tip under her chin. “Not another move, Avvar.” She looked down at Aslaug open, empty hands. “You carry no staff.”

Aslaug was a little confused and her question was an honest one. “Do all yours with magic-blood carry staffs?”

Cassandra gave a put-upon sigh and removed the sword before sheathing it. “Mostly. I forget - the Avvar are different.” She looked down at the pile of weapons at their feet. “Take what weapons you can. We will need them and I cannot protect you on my own,” she conceded.

Aslaug took a silver spear. It was weighty in the front, a little imbalanced and not the finest make, but it would do better than her climbing axe or simply her two hands if magic wasn’t enough. She kicked the rubble away and unearthed a simple wooden shield. The Avvar woman hesitated, looked back at the winding path and thought for a moment to flee and leave this warrior and her lowland people to their fate - they had torn at the Lady of the Skies and perhaps angered their god - or maybe their god was angry at the Lady?

Whatever Cassandra’s reason for bringing Aslaug along, Aslaug was duty, honor and Hold bound to search for answers. The lowlander god could be angry with his own all he liked, her concern was for the Lady.

She sighed in frustration and followed the warrior.

 

...

 

The battlefield was a patchwork of bodies and ice and snow and demons. Cassandra shuddered now and then from the cold, hissing. Aslaug laughed. “This is not _cold_ lowlander. _Cold_ is meant to chew the fat from your bones and turn your hair to ice.” She thought of the Frostbacks and Lurkerhold and fought off the overwhelming suspicion that she would never see either again alive.

The forward camp, if it could be called a camp, was overrun with the corrupted gods. They were mad, driven insane and would not acknowledge Aslaug beyond a murderous drive. She nearly bit her tongue in two. There were so many.

An elf knocked one of the demons back with a graceful sweep of his staff and froze it with a curl of his fingers. A dwarf - the first possible friendly face she’d seen - was using a bow, but it was sideways and fired bolts like an Fereldan trebuchet. She had never seen its like before.

Cassandra drove one of the demons back with her shield, hacking at it with her mace. The four fighters and the other soldiers in the immediate area killed the demons, black blood splattered across armor and the ground. She stabbed the spear in the ground and settled the buckles of the shield at her forearm more securely, preparing herself for another battle. But it was not to be.

“Now, before more come through!” The elf ordered, face twisted in a grimace of desperation. He was suddenly at her side, gripping her wrist and flinging her arm out palm open and the magic in her palm, still so angry, but now it was focused - focused on the wound before it and a stream of magic connected it to the wound and she ripped away out of surprise and instinct when she felt something crawl in her palm.

The wound closed.

The mark fell silent.

She turned wide eyes upon the elf who she had dismissed - the Avvar never had friends among the Dalish - but she could see now that he was not Dalish. He bore no face-markings.

“What did you do?” She asked. “You healed the Lady’s wound.”

He paused and cocked his head, lips pursing slightly.

“So. That was useful.” A voice behind her stated. Aslaug turned to look at the dwarf, putting away the fascinating bow-machine behind his back. “Varric Tethras. Dwarf, merchant and occasionally, unwelcome tagalong.” He winked at the warrior. Cassandra made a noise of disgust. He looked her up and down. “I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you’re not a city-girl.”

Aslaug looked down at herself; oiled leather and furs to keep warm, heavy boots to travel painlessly and gloves to climb, a hood to keep the wind and rain from her face. “I’m Avvar," she settled.

The dwarf laughed and whistled. “Well damn.”

“Are you with the lowlander god? The Chantry?” She remembered the augur’s tale of history, and of the name Cassandra had mentioned. A place of worship. A place for their god.

The elf laughed. “Is that a serious question?”

Aslaug felt embarrassment creep upon her.

“I’m Solas, if there are to be introductions. And I am pleased you yet live.” He smiled pleasantly.

“He means, 'I kept that mark from killing you while you slept'.” The dwarf mentioned, adjusting his gloves.

Aslaug turned to the one called Solas. “You know of this god-mark?” She raised her hand, palm open.

His face was carefully blank. “God-mark?”

“Is it not?” She asked hesitantly. “I’ve no knowledge of any mortal hand that could craft this. And what little I do know of lowlander magic, not even legends mention this.” She clenched her hand.  

“It is magic, yes, and none that I have seen before.” He turned to Cassandra. “The prisoner is a mage, but I have my doubts that any mage could create this.”

Cassandra nodded to him. “Understood. We should move quickly, and find Leliana. There is a rift we must deal with before the situation worsens.”

Aslaug hefted her spear again and watched Varric charm his way into their group to push through the valley. “Does it pain you?” Solas asked, his eyes on the mark.

She looked down. “Can you make it stop?”

He looked somewhat regretful. “No more than what I’ve already done.”

Aslaug shook her head. “Then no. And - thank you. For caring for me on the sickbed. I’m in your debt," she promised.

“Close the Breach,and I will consider the debt paid back," he said grimly.

Aslaug sniffed. “Saved from a bear, asked to kill a dragon.”

The not-Dalish elf Solas laughed. The moment was brief before they were on the move again.

The Breach, as Solas and Cassandra called it, was not just a rift from which gave birth to all the other smaller rifts that birthed demons - it was the first, and to Aslaug was the worst offence made to the Lady. Whoever, whatever made this, would die. As an Avvar, Aslaug would be lifebound by such a deed to avenge the Lady of the Skies.

There was a memory here, hers or whatever else there was - a voice that bespoke of ancient superiority, and it demanded the sacrifice be brought forth. A priestess pled for her life and Aslaug saw herself slide into the room - “ _What are you doing_?” the memory of her demanded -

“ _Kill the savage_.” The shadow creature pointed a long claw at the memory of Aslaug -

And the memory ended.

To reopen the wound, Solas said, was necessary so that they could close it.

Burn a wound to seal it, to prevent poisoned blood. Hate it as she might, the Lady was badly injured.

She opened the wound and a towering creature of scales and horns came through, cackling and forming lightning that tasted metallic in the air in its hands. Aslaug, despite the situation, felt excitement run through her. This would be a good battle, a good fight. As corrupt as this god was, and though it needed to die so it could be reborn as something better, it would bring battle-honor and worthiness to her.

Worthiness that may convince the gods who were so silent to come back.

The god fought well and it was a very, very good fight, but more and more corrupt gods kept pouring from the Lady’s wound, birthed from malice and anger and madness that hurt Aslaug to even consider.

Without needing further instruction, when the giant corrupt god fell heavily to one knee and bent its horned head, Aslaug thrust her palm at the wound. _‘Please let this heal you Lady, my life for your healing, I swear it, Avvar daughter to mother of all, please heal’_ -

The wound snapped, answering the call of the mark and Aslaug felt it drain all of her, the Lady’s wound eating her mortal form to heal. Aslaug’s eyes rolled back and she fell to the side, not hearing the gasp of the warrior or the muttered curse of the dwarf or the surprised grunt of the man who barely caught her and supported her dead weight.

Her eyes roamed beneath her lids sightlessly.

“Is she…?” Cassandra asked.

Solas nodded. “She lives.”

The Breach was silent above them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> her name is Aslaug because I find myself hilariously clever. NR, but w/e
> 
> sidenote - this is the first time i've actually planned a story with multiple chapters instead of just posting a one shot and leaving it open ended. clearly this will end well. 
> 
> i have no beta, if there are mistakes, please point them out so i can edit.


	2. höfn

Augur Hrathgur held out a hand. “Give it back, girl. I know you took it.”

Aslaug wrinkled her nose. “I didn’t take anything.” She hadn’t taken anything out of mischief since she was a little thing, knobby knees and bony elbows with shorn hair on one side. She hadn’t looked like that in many, many winters. And she certainly wasn’t a _girl_ anymore, she’d been a woman grown for eight summers.

The augur sighed. “I know you took it. The gods told me as such.”

“I _haven’t_ taken anything, augur. I went to the temple of the burning woman. They’ve no thane or augur to make them settle and nothing happened so I came back.” She paused and she felt as though she’d said something wrong. “I came back.” Her brow wrinkled. “I did come back didn’t I?”

Hrathgur had never looked old before, but now crow’s feet walked at the corner of his eyes. “You’ve stolen it, Aslaug Gunhilddotten O Lurkerhold. A god-mark from no god of ours. You need to give it back.”

Aslaug’s eyes followed the augur’s pointing finger to her left hand. Her heart was a fish caught in a net, struggling and flopping at the sight of the fisher. Otherworldly green, the color of the land of dreams, crackled like glass breaking in her palm, carving it in two. “I never came back, did I? Am I dead, augur?” The words came out thick, sap-thick in winter rolling down heavy pines.

She didn’t want to be dead. She’d never wanted to die. There was no one in the lowlands to break apart her body and leave her for the birds. Avvar were not meant to die in the lowlands unless felled by battle and she hadn’t - had she?

He sighed as he had before. “You need to give it back Aslaug.”

And his face broke apart into shadows, dark and green, and the god-mark on Aslaug’s hand sang -

Aslaug bolted upright with a loud inhale at the sound of a door creaking open.

The elven woman carrying a wooden box of vials shouted in surprise and dropped it, backing away. “I’m sorry, I never meant to wake you.”

The Avvar woman was still feeling the aftershocks of the nightmare - or vision or message - from the land of dreams and ignored her. By the time Aslaug thought to speak, the woman was already out the door and only said - “Seeker Cassandra wishes to speak with you in the Chantry. At once, she said. At once!” And then she was gone.

She was still in the lowlands. She had forgotten.

Aslaug stood slowly, felt phantom pains in her arm originating from her marked hand. She clenched her fist slowly and the mark was quiet, dormant, but its presence was still telling - a slumbering great bear in the cave during winter.

Seeker Cassandra. Cassandra the battlemaster? Was she the thane of these people? She was no augur and she wasn’t a hunter. Seeker of what?

Aslaug didn’t know all the titles the lowlanders kept or what they all meant. Thanes kept order and justice and ruled over a hold and were the masters of war - lowlanders seemed to have different people for each of those things. An augur had no place here. Those with magic-blood needed to beware down here and Seeker Cassandra knew what she was, knew what she could do -

A chill crept down her spine at the realization. Was she a god-forsaken warrior? A Tower-keeper? If she was and she knew already what Aslaug could do -

No Avvar consented to capture, ever. She would _not,_  she would never go to a Tower. She was no goat to be penned.

But - she reasoned to herself - she wasn’t even sure she was still a prisoner. Prisoners did not wake up in soft, high beds and candlelight in an airy, if small room.

She looked down at herself and noted that she wore lowlander clothes - someone had changed her and taken her clothes. The given clothes were tight and odd. Why would they dress as such? There was nowhere to hide a blade, no deep pockets for herbs, and it offered no protection. She turned her attention to her surroundings, memorizing what details there were.

A lit candle dripped scentless wax, so unlike the candles of Lurkerhold that held herbs for peace and good fortune.

There were scraps of paper and books on a table nearby but she paid them no mind.

She followed the direction the elf had taken and saw rows of people - they were bowing and murmuring prayers. Were they attempting to invoke their god upon her? Did they still blame her for the Great Wound in the sky? But she saw no anger in their faces. No blame.

She looked up and saw that it was still there but it was still and calm as the Birthing Lake near Lurkerhold. She hadn’t been able to close the Lady’s wound completely but she no longer bled freely.

Aslaug kept her head down. She had no wish to make a spectacle of herself in so much as she could being a lone Avvar in Ferelden, and made her way to the temple a short distance away. Seeker Cassandra hadn’t kept her prisoner, technically, and Aslaug meant to find out what exactly that meant.

“That’s her, that’s the Herald of Andraste.” She heard someone whisper and she stopped cold, turned back to the crowd. “She walked out of the Fade, Andraste led her out.”

Andraste - their burning woman? And this “herald”, were they referring to her? She was no herald, not even an augur - did these people think _she_ was a herald from their prophetess? Was this mark - was this their god’s doing?

Did their god mark her?

 

...

 

The priest known as Chancellor Roderick, the one who had called for her execution was enraged to see her. Seeker Cassandra, who Aslaug was now certain was the thane of this strange Hold, forbade it.

And then strangely asked for her assistance.

To bring the one who did this to justice. Whoever had done this had killed their Divine Justinia, a high priestess of their Chantry and a beloved listener of their god - an offense any thane would wish to avenge.

She considered it. She had a stake in this - they were unsure if their god had marked her, and what caused the Great Wound - and they were offering to research it and to find a way - if there was one - to remove the mark. She didn’t want to bear a god’s mark if she didn’t know what price would be exacted.

And - the nug rutting son of a goat who had killed Seeker Cassandra’s Divine Justinia had struck against the Lady.

Any Avvar worth their breath would wish to seek out the one who had done such an injustice.

She would find who did this and upon all the gods and the Holds who held the Lady of the Skies dear, would slit their throat and leave them for the servants of the Lady to pick clean before _their_ gods could find them.

Seeker Cassandra held out a tome that depicted a hairy eyeball. “The Inquisition will find those responsible, and we _will_ bring order.” She held Aslaug’s gaze.

Order in the lowlands meant little to her people, but this wasn’t just about _her_ people and _their_ people. There were things in this world that transcended such mortal concerns.

Aslaug pounded her fist twice on the table. “Aslaug Gunhilddotten is with the Inquisition.” A gods-bound oath.

Seeker Cassandra’s face didn’t express much but she seemed to approve. “Then we should begin. I will speak with the others about our next move. If you like, feel free to familiarize yourself with Haven. I hear your people once lived there.”

It was a dismissal if she ever heard one, but not an impolite one; Cassandra was thane of Havenhold and surely needed other things to address now that she had secured Aslaug's promise of help. Leliana, shadow-priestess, inclined her head with the barest hint of a smile. Aslaug bowed her head and left the room, the Chantry with quick steps. Priestesses within the temple watched her with wide eyes. 

She felt mildly more at ease once she was out and meandered down the steps, drawn by the sounds of loud voices and the singing chorus of steel. 

She saw a group of spirit-talkers wearing cumbersome robes and thought to join them until she saw them quietly conferring over several heavy books. On the opposite side of Havenhold, warriors outfitted in heavy armor stood shoulder to shoulder, watching each other practice and calling out corrections - but Aslaug gave them a wide berth upon seeing the fiery sword emblazoned across their chests.

She thought to join some of the nondescript soldiers or scouts but the looks of fear and suspicion and awe drove her away. If this were an Avvar Hold, she would have presented herself to the thane and made a welcome-offering so she could obtain a proper guest-welcome while in the Hold. She would have gone to speak with their augur as she was a shaman and would need appropriate guidance from that specific Hold’s gods. She would have tested her mettle in the arena, or offered to hunt or gather herbs. During a long stay as a guest in a Hold, one had to contribute. It was only right. She had no idea what was right here.

She considered Seeker Cassandra as the thane, but she wasn’t sure that was right. And there was no augur. No master of the hunt, no skald to ask - there seemed to be an arena master, Commander Cullen, but even that was a stretch. He was a battlemaster and was said to command the forces of the Inquisition. A thane’s duty. Yet he was not one.

Adrift and confused, shock settling in her as she realized more and more just how different these lowlanders were, Aslaug came to find herself before the dwarf Varric Tethras.

Without asking for permission, she sat on one of the low benches beside him. He peered over at her. “So. Herald of Andraste. How are you holding up, I didn’t want to ask around Cassandra.”

Aslaug felt like slumping like a brat but held herself upright. He was offering to lend an ear, and she was of mind to oblige.

“I went to the burning woman’s temple to listen. This war you lowlanders have, the spirit-talkers and the god - _Tower_ -keepers, might spill into Avvar territory. I was sent by my thane to find out what was happening, really happening, not half-bitten tales from traders or confused merchants who were upset about blocked paths.” She stumbled over saying “god-forsaken warriors” - it might be offensive down here, and as she was clearly outnumbered by even they here in this place; it would be best to hold her tongue. “There were...more dead than I thought there would be on my way to the temple. And many more dead thereafter.”

They were not her people, but life lost badly was still sad.

Varric sighed and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “A lot of people died on that mountain for no reason. And well, shit. Wrong place, wrong time for you.” He gave her a look. “Bad luck.”

Aslaug winced. “I don’t know what god I offended.”

“Are you sure you offended one?”

“Bad luck comes from an offended god.” She would need to make appropriate offerings but first she’d need to find out what god she offended and how.

“Huh.” Varric looked thoughtful. “I never caught your name.”

She perked up. He had been the only one to ask for her name after giving her his. “Aslaug Gunhilddotten O Lurkerhold.”

“That uh. That’s a mouthful.”

“My name is Aslaug.” She tried to draw out the sounds slowly so he might have an easier time of it.

Varric nodded. “Well, Aslaug,” he stumbled a little over the sounds of her name but she paid it little mind. She was stumbling over everything down here and had little room to judge. “I have a question. It’s a little personal, but I’m a writer. I write things. Record them. Someone has to," he muttered in an aside.

Aslaug felt a small well of relief. “You are a skald.”

“Pardon?”

“Skald. Storyteller, history keeper.”

“I guess. As much as I can, anyway. The world, well it’s gone to shit. I don’t know how often you travel from the Frostbacks, but it isn’t usually this bad. So I’m trying to get accounts together because if we make it out of this alive, it’s a story that needs to be told.” He looked up at her. “And I don’t know if you believe in the Maker, but I’d like to hear what you think of Andraste. People are calling you her herald, afterall," he spoke hesitantly.

Aslaug, feeling no animosity or particular bias to the question, saw no harm in sharing the Avvar view. “She prayed to Korth and the Lady but neither answered her. When she prayed to her Maker, she was answered.”

Varric uncrossed his arms when she didn’t continue. “And that’s it? You don’t hate her for praying to another god?”

“Why would we hate her for seeking another god when others didn’t answer her?” Lowlander logic. It baffled her. She would need to explain herself to him. “If she sought another god and her prayers were listened to, answered, then that is her business. Not all the gods are kind, and they don’t always answer. It’s part of the reason why there’s so many. The Dalish have their gods, the dwarves have their paragons, lowlanders have their Maker. Just because the Maker is not my god and Andraste was not my prophetess, doesn’t make them wrong. Doesn’t mean they don’t exist. If enough people believe a god exists, then it does.”

A simple, plain truth every child of the Avvar would know.

Varric, by contrast, looked flummoxed. “So...as an Avvar, you believe in all gods? All of them?”

“We believe that all gods exist, but we don’t pray to them. Just because they exist doesn’t make them our gods.” She paused. “All lands have thanes - rulers, but that doesn’t mean they _all_ rule over you, does it?”

Varric rocked back on his heels and exhaled a long breath. “Alright, I can understand that. That, that makes sense, in a really polytheistic way. This will be...really interesting to pen down. I’m sure my publisher will love this.” He chuckled grimly.  

“Do you only write your tales? Do you not tell them?” She asked.

“I don’t really have the voice for singing, and contrary to my extremely confident and self-assured self, I don’t think I could withstand people listening to me and watching me while I told them a story out loud. I did it once and it was less than pleasant.” He began turning away and dipped his head in her direction. “Thanks for indulging me, and not literally axing me when I asked you about the whole gods thing. I’m gonna go get a drink while I figure out how I’m gonna get these accounts straight.” He was already walking up the path that led to the merriment lodge.

“Is that what you lowlanders think of the Avvar?” She asked in an amused tone. The thought delighted her.

Varric threw over his shoulder, “We even have books about your people!”

Books she could not read, of course.

Bereft of Varric the dwarf-skald, she once again found herself without company.

She wandered up the path he had taken and thought for a moment of entering once she heard someone singing a tale she didn’t know inside but she saw the Solas ahead.

Magic-blooded, battle-worn and a healer. He seemed like he should’ve been an augur but she didn’t think the Chantry god allowed such a position. She had heard of the way elves were treated down here. It was a shame. He would’ve made a good one, she thought. They would be better off with the Dalish or Avvar.

Aslaug trekked up the incline quickly to him.

“So comes the Herald of Andraste, a blessed hero to save us all.” He gave a small, secret sort of smile and abruptly Aslaug was made aware that he was attractive, a different kind of handsome. Not like the heavy muscle and broad faces of Avvar men as she had always been exposed to. Avvar elven people were fairly rare; rarer than Avvar dwarves. Other Holds had more elven people, Lurkerhold only had one elven woman who had been adopted as a child.

She returned the smile readily. “What do lowlander heroes get? A prancing horse?” She thought of Trader Aghi’s wild tales of Orlesian horses clad in gold and jewels trained to prance with their hooves high off the ground.

Solas chuckled. “Heroes often receive pretty gifts and favors from people or nobles. Like prancing horses.”

“Were this an Avvar tale and I a man and a worthy enough hero for a legend-mark, I would have had a dozen sun-wives - or just one really fine sword.” She smiled.

“And as a woman?” Though he seemed to be playing along, she caught sight of an academic interest lurking behind the question.

“As a woman, I’d be worthy of being stolen across all the Holds and given my choice of weapon.” He seemed interested in continuing the conversation, but she’d learned from Trader Aghi that lowlanders didn’t understand some of their culture. They didn’t take kindly to their courtship rituals - not quite as explosive as talk of their gods or augurs, but uncomfortable enough that she thought to steer the conversation away from it. Even the dwarves who knew of some of the augur practices in Avvar culture and their gods and didn’t care, did not always agree with their marital or courting rites.

“I meant to thank you for caring for me while I was injured. Again. Seeker Cassandra said that you and another shaman made sure I didn’t die in my sleep.” Straightening, she extended her arm to him and he slowly, as if unsure of her intent, clasped only her hand but she shook it off and clasped his forearm, guiding his hand to do the same. “Aslaug Gunhilddotten owes you a life-debt twice over, Solas...” She let her voice trail off. He had not given her a clan name, a family name - lowlanders didn’t use Hold names or mother or father names.

He gripped her arm firmly, respectfully now that he understood what she wanted. “There is no debt. I fear, however, that your work is not done. And that will...place a great deal on you.” He looked - not quite sad or pitying but the emotion there was heartfelt.

“I wanted to ask. What city are you from? You’ve no face-markings. You’re not Dalish - I don’t think.” She let her grip slide away. He hadn’t given the rest of his name, a faux pas she would forgive since he didn’t know he’d committed it. 

“Why?” He asked suspiciously.

“You and Seeker Cassandra and Varric the dwarf-skald are the only ones here who I am familiar with. Seeker Cassandra prevented that mouthy priest from ordering my execution and you saved my life. Twice," she said earnestly. Honestly, they were the only people in this strange land who she had spoken to, and it was bad enough being in a different Hold with her own people, but her people were nowhere near here. She felt somewhat desperate to know people.

“And Varric?” Solas asked, narrow eyes sharp. Kind but shrewd. She respected that. She supposed it was necessary down here.

“He is a dwarf," she said simply, believing it would explain everything, and perhaps Solas understood or decided not to follow up on more questions.

“I apologize, I forgot that you are a stranger here as well. And with so much fear in the air...I am from a small village to the north, I doubt anyone has heard of it.” Solas folded his arms behind him and seemed to radiate the same magnanimity as her thane.

“Aslaug Gunhilddotten O Lurkerhold greets you, Solas of the north.”

His lip twitched and he seemed - amused? “‘Solas of the north’ makes me sound rather important," he said finally.

“Were you Avvar, you would have been an augur," she said with certainty and then with somewhat less certainty asked, “What are you here?”

“An apostate. A...mage that lies outside of the Circle of Magi and thus, I am technically a renegade.” His face smoothed out. His voice was careful, cool. “And unfortunately, here, so are you. But you at least have the protection of being the Herald.” His implication wasn’t lost on Aslaug.

A somberness overtook her. She had heard tales of what Tower-keepers, god-forsaken warriors, did to the magic-blooded - Trader Aghi and the augur had both impressed that upon them in Lurkerhold. She doubted there was any exaggeration. “I told you I owed you a life-debt twice over. They can have you should they get through me. Lurkerhold does not breed thin-skinned oath-breakers.” She swore fiercely.

Solas looked taken aback but he softened after a long moment. “Thank you." 

Aslaug nodded back authoritatively. Another oath, but they were worthy of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was sort of a filler chapter to sort of bridge where Aslaug’s thoughts on the original core members of the Inquisition lie, and also to ease all of you in with regards to the Avvar culture. And the “hairy eyeball” bit is actually a canon reference if you play a qunari origin.
> 
>  
> 
> Codex entry “Avvar names” 
> 
> Traditional Avvar names begin with the first name (Aslaug) and their “last name” signifies their same sex parent’s first name (Gunhild) while suffixes of “dotten” or “sen” denote daughter or son respectively. The final part of their name just declares their Hold loyalty (O Lurkerhold). The Avvar vary on what their names include, one type would be: “Aslaug Gunhilddotten” with a first and surname, another would’ve read something like “Aslaug An Gunhild O Lurkerhold”. I chose to go with Aslaug Gunhilddotten to lean more towards Norse, but I kept “O Lurkerhold” to help emphasize the intense loyalty they have towards their Holds and I think this would be particularly important during first introductions. 
> 
> And if at any point anyone is curious about the first names of Avvar I’ll be using, they will not be ones I made up, they will be traditional Norse names where they’ll have some general meaning/further history behind them if you wanna look them up. 
> 
>  
> 
> Codex Entry “Dwarves and Avvar” 
> 
> The DA codex specifies that the Avvar actually have a fair, working relationship with the dwarves of Orzammar. The Avvar provide furs, wines, and food from the surface mostly in exchange for typical dwarven craft. Of all the relationships the Avvar have with the people of Thedas, their closest one is with the dwarves (surfacer or otherwise) specifically because dwarves have little concern towards mages, the Chantry, do not have a bloody history with them and focus primarily on trade and business. 
> 
> This is the reason Aslaug in the first chapter referred to Varric as “the first friendly face” - the Avvar are used to working alongside dwarves.


	3. kunningi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may not seem like it, but I’m trying really hard to avoid making the pace of this story glacial, but I’d like to think that the introduction period of the Inquisition would be a little more difficult than the DA:I game leads up to, particularly with a person who had little outside contact and doesn’t know much about the other cultures that come in to play (whereas dalish, carta and vashoth origins have all had some interaction, or at least more than Aslaug). Believe it or not, I actually started on the chapter after this one first since I had intended for that one to be the first one, but it messed with the pacing. I am trying to post a chapter when I have at least the following one half done and several following at least planned out. That being said, this is the chapter that will smooth the way for the next one where there's like actual plot and character interaction. (please don't hate me for the second filler chapter). love you all, please enjoy. :)
> 
> and if you want update news or have questionsyou'dlike to ask but don't want to do so here, I made a tumblr blog specifically for it: deleriumofyou @ tumblr :D

Seeker Cassandra, who insisted after a time that she only be called ‘Cassandra’, had also said that due to the mark on Aslaug’s hand and the volatile nature of which people regarded her; herald of their prophetess or murderess of their Divine Justinia, she was to stick to Havenhold’s walls. “It isn’t called Havenhold,” Cassandra had added.

“But it’s what it is, isn’t it?” Aslaug had returned. It was sanctuary and a place called Haven - which she had learned eventually that Avvar had settled it but they were thin-blooded, breeding too close and not folding any outside strength to them so they could hardly be considered Avvar - and it was a Hold. Cassandra had let the argument go.

She was not allowed to hunt. Could not fish - they didn’t think to break a circle in the iced lake and fish as she had suggested because they didn’t believe it safe. It was safe enough if you weren’t so stupid as to fall in. She’d volunteered to do it and was immediately shot down. “If you fall in and freeze to death, then we will have taken steps and measures that will amount to nothing," Cassandra had said.

Aslaug had laughed at the concern. “Freeze to death? I’m Avvar.”

For all their grumbling about dwindling food supplies, they didn’t take advantage of the abundance that the mountain offered. No fish, the druffalo were left alone because they were said to turn aggressive and the nugs were avoided because they were thought of as vermin. They seemed to only hunt ram.

The only way they wouldn't starve, she assumed, meant more hard tack.

Due to the constraints the advisors and Cassandra had impressed upon her, Aslaug found herself more often than not seeking out the very first lowland companions she’d made. Even that had limits.

She could only speak to Varric for so long before something or someone else took his attention. And he was constantly writing.

Cassandra was still wary of her, but was straightforward and answered what she could, although she didn’t always give answers Aslaug wanted or agreed with. Times would come when they would butt heads.

Solas answered all of her questions with an endless patience:

“Why do they not eat them? Roasted nug is very good.”

“It is considered distasteful; they are likened to rats and their hands make people uncomfortable.”

Or, “You must be married down here for children?”

“It is considered scandalous otherwise. Do Avvar not marry?”

“We do. But it is different. It is not forever, not for everyone. And you do not need to marry to make children - anyone can make children and bring them into the Hold.”

Or, “This thing one of the priestesses was wearing, what is it? What had she done to deserve it?”

“Pardon? What was she wearing?”

“Beneath her robes, she wore a cage around her. And she asked one of the other priestesses to tighten it. What punishment is this?”

“...It is not a punishment, it is Orlesian fashion and it is called a corset.”

“I can hear you laughing, Solas.”

 _Ahem_. “Excuse me.”

He answered all the small things she didn’t understand about the lowlands. But most importantly, he told her about the mage-templar war that had been sparked. A mage by the name of Anders had planted a bomb in their Chantry and killed hundreds. The Circles rebelled and the Order sought to crush it while the Chantry tried to maintain its neutrality. And so the Order broke from the Chantry.

“Their doctrine decrees that they are the guardians of mages and the holy order under the Chantry. Clearly, it seems they grew tired of the Chantry’s platitudes and saw themselves as the last great hope for Thedas. The mages within the Circles sought fair treatment. And they were denied even that, and now the world rests blame on the mages for rebelling.”

Aslaug leaned against a wall across from Solas. Her brows drew together. “Then maybe it was for the best this Divine Justinia died.” Honestly. If a thane was completely useless, no Hold would stand for it long, and in Orzammar, if a king was unpopular he didn't last long. She doubted it was so different down here.

He looked at her sharply. “Take care where you say that, I fear few here will be kind should they hear that. However, I do agree on some level. Stagnation is a slow death. Change doesn’t always come gently. ”

“Traditions are good to keep, but not if they bind your arm behind your back. My people aren't perfect, but we do change if it means the best for our future. I don’t know much about their Maker or their Chantry. Andraste may have been Alamarri but she was only one woman among us. We followed her to drive the Tevinters out not for her newfound god.” She shrugged. “But I don’t envy them for their Maker.”

“Oh?” Solas asked.

“Cassandra said that the Maker wanted to be the only one to be believed in and worshipped. That in order for him to forgive humanity for their sins, they would have to spread their chant across all of the world.” She gave Solas a wry look. “He sounds like a jealous god. I _don’t_ envy that.”

“I heard that there are many gods among the Avvar, what gods is it you worship exactly?” He asked.

“All Avvar worship the Lady of the Skies, Korth the Mountain-Father, and Hakkon Wintersbreath, but beyond that, each Hold has their own gods.” She hesitated, wondering if it would be so bad to tell an outsider of Lurkerhold’s gods. Solas showed a genuine interest. “One of Lurkerhold’s gods has been with us for many generations. He is our god of the lost. Should an Avvar find themselves lost somehow, he will find you and light the way back home with god’s fire. If you are trapped, he will come and move the obstacle that traps you.”

Solas watched her carefully. “And if you are far from the mountain? If you are lost in lands beyond the Frostbacks, can he still find you?”

Aslaug turned her face away. “If you are asking if I have invoked him, yes, I did so before we sealed shut the Lady’s wound. He didn’t answer. None of the gods did. And I cannot call to him now.”

“I am sorry,” he said.

Aslaug cleared the tightness from her throat and nodded.

“May I ask why you cannot call him now?” Solas asked delicately.

“He is the god of the lost. If you are not lost, you will have no answer.” She met his gaze. “I swore an oath to stay. I am not lost, even if my Hold will consider me so.”

She saw the realization that dawned upon him. He folded his hands together and looked down briefly. “Then you have sacrificed more than we knew. I apologize for not even considering…”

Aslaug shrugged more nonchalantly than she felt. “ ‘Hold before blood.’ Havenhold is where I must stay now, and perhaps Lurkerhold will let me go back when this is finished and we have killed the Lady’s enemy, but I have pledged my loyalty to the Inquisition and Havenhold. It is not a thing done lightly.” She smiled grimly. “But it must be done.” She eyed Solas. “You stayed though you had no reason to. You saved my life twice for no other reason than you are kind.”

Solas’ gaze slid away from her for a moment. “Yes. It must be done or we are all doomed. But I am not so kind as you think.”

“You are kind and brave. You believed me when I said I didn’t make the Great Wound and stayed despite all the tower-keepers, the templars," she insisted.

Solas snorted. “I had been preparing to leave if you hadn’t woken up. As we have discussed before, I am a mage surrounded by Chantry forces but have no mark of power to prevent them for leading me away in chains.”

Aslaug squinted. “The Great Wound was eating the Lady whole. Where would you have gone that the Lady didn’t stretch over?”

“I never said it was a good plan. Luckily, you vowed to vouch for me. And I believe that Cassandra finds me more useful out of chains than in them. She was not so...understanding before you woke.”

“Well. I am glad you stayed.” Aslaug turned to watch the people in the distance, talking and laughing or sparring or working. “These people confuse me. They curse the gods that would love them if given the chance. I do not understand it. You do though. You do not speak as if they are monsters to be kept in the dark, a great wyvern to guard a home against.” She didn’t turn to him, didn’t wish for anyone to see the disquiet that crawled in her.

“Spirits reflect what mortals see. They adapt to people,” he said and slowly came to stand beside her, gaze similarly drawn to the distance.

“The gods are the storm and the calm, spring and winter. They are not so simple.”

Solas hummed thoughtfully. “The nature of your gods is similar to what I know to be true of spirits. And it is rather obvious that you are discomforted by the beliefs here when compared to your people.”

“When I was still being mentored by my teacher, I was never alone. Even when I hunted in the shadows of Korth, or in the murk of the low marshlands, my teacher was with me. I was never afraid of the fire in my hand. Or the ice I could breathe.” Aslaug let her gaze rest heavily on the Circle mages.

Solas blinked. “I had heard that Avvar mages invite spirits to possess them but hadn’t realized it was so...strongly encouraged.”

“How else will we learn our magic? A book? An old man who doesn’t know what magic flows through us? The gods, the kinder gods, teach us how to use it and live with it.” She waved a dismissive hand at the small gathering of mages. “They have books and know things, but they don’t know what to do with those things. They don’t know how to teach themselves. They are afraid of themselves and the gods who would help them are the corrupt ones they attract.”

“They have a limiting education, that is true but is it not true for the Avvar as well?”

“Maybe. But at least we aren’t afraid of what we are. If you’re afraid to use a knife, you will cut yourself,” she said simply.

Solas smiled thinly. “There is more truth to that than people realize.”

Aslaug wondered what he meant by that and what story his face told, although she had manners enough to not pursue it. “Solas, what will happen to the lowland mages when the Great Wound is healed? Will they return to their Towers?” It seemed sad, to be locked away from the world and made to believe that the gods were all monstrous and unnatural. To never let them learn of the gods they only knew to reject - would a mother tie her child’s legs together because she was afraid of him one day running away?

It was cruel. Crueler still that the world below, all these people, saw it and it was expected.

“Perhaps but their future is uncertain. The Chantry as it is now has no direction which means that the Circle are broken, and the templars are fractured,” Solas said.

She frowned. “It would be better to not leave people in cages like animals preparing for slaughter.”

“Yes, it would. But people fear those with magic and the things they do not understand. They see no desire to search further for answers.”

No, she thought but didn’t say, instead of answers they look to fire and doom. No wonder the corrupt gods roamed these lands in such numbers. “You’re different.”

“I suppose.”

“You _are._ Why? Is it because of your village?” She asked. Solas was not like the others, he seemed to understand magic more intuitively and accepted gods, spirits, without question.

“I walk through the Fade regularly. Perhaps...not so dissimilar from your augurs, I seek out spirits for company. Wisdom, to share ancient and forgotten knowledge, or Purpose to help me find lost memories…” Solas continued to speak but Aslaug had stopped listening.

“You see as the gods see?” She asked, voice quiet and awed. Not even the augur at Lurkerhold could venture so easily to the realm of the gods and shape it as they did.

Solas stopped in the middle of his explanation. He blinked. “Yes. There are many things to see, to know in the Fade from many different perspectives. The spirits see all that we do and more. They reflect history and people.”

She leaned in, excited and unashamed of it. “Is this something you could teach?”

“It is a skill that could perhaps come with time and patience," he said haltingly, his posture a little stiffer.

She frowned. “I do not seek out gods for power. Such ilk is Tevinter. But it is strange to be in the lowlands. The gods here are quiet and hidden.” She hesitated. “When I called out to them at that temple, they did not answer. It is...a frightening thing, to be close to the gods for your whole life and then come here and it is as though the land is plagued. I dislike it.”

Solas relaxed and he understood what she needed. A connection that was beyond the grasp that she could control or others would even conceive. A little kindness. Solas understood that well. “I see. We will have to be discrete in our lessons. The people here do not understand magic as well as they claim, or spirits or the Fade for that matter.”

Aslaug turned a large smile to him and some of the dark fear she kept hidden left her. Solas claimed he was no augur but she was doubtful of that as well, as doubtful as she was that Cassandra was no thane.

 

...

“She cannot read," Solas said.

Cassandra gave him a long narrow eyed look. “At _all?”_  

“The Avvar, as she explained and I understood, do not use letters, they use glyphs.” 

Josephine pursed her lips and scribbled on her stack of vellum. “Pictographs,” she said without asking. “She can read nothing of the common tongue, certainly not Orlesian.” She sighed. “This will be a problem. The Grand Clerics are trying to goad the Inquisition into...revealing her. So far, we have managed to avoid specifying where she is from or what she was doing at the Conclave.”

“It will worry them should they find out the Avvar have taken an interest,” Leliana said.

“They will be more concerned with the fact that the Herald of Andraste is a blasphemous Avvar mage,” Solas pointed out.

“If she were to learn her letters, even a small amount, it could be enough to convince the clerics that she is Andraste come again - Avvar learning of the Chantry? It could be leverage,” Leliana said.

“Enough.” Cassandra waved a hand. “Solas you must convince her to learn from one of the sisters. They have taught peasants. It would not be so different.”

“On the contrary, it will be. They believed and trusted in the Chantry. Historically, the Avvar never acknowledged the Chantry and their definition of the Maker would be considered blasphemous. Not to mention, she knows that the templars are the military order that once served under the Chantry.” He looked at Cassandra and then each of the advisors one by one before landing on Cullen. “Have templars ever gone to find Avvar shamans?”

“It’s happened once or twice. Some jumped up recruits or arrogant commanders would get it in their heads to track down Avvar mages but none of them came back,” he said.

Solas nodded. “They do not trust templars. And they do not trust the religious organization that created them.” He put his arms behind his back. “She doesn’t despise the Chantry, but I find it extremely unlikely she will compromise as you wish. There is also another consideration to take into account. The magic she grew up with is distinctly different from what is taught within the Circle. Someone will need to teach her to blend in.”

“You?” Cullen asked, eyes narrowed.

“Or, if you like, you can try to introduce her to another Circle mage who will not understand or accept the magic she was taught, and may find her culture dangerous,” Solas said impatiently.

“She _is_ dangerous. What little we know of Avvar magical practices is that even the mildest of their rituals would never be accepted in a Circle,” Cullen retorted.

The mage paused. “Are you suggesting she be watched by a templar?” He could only imagine the gruesome scenario that would occur if they tried to foist a “Tower-keeper” upon her.

“No. That is not what we will do. She is the Herald of Andraste, not an apostate gone mad,” Cassandra cut in. “And I will be beside her, regardless.”

“She is comfortable with Solas, no? You can translate for her, ease her in to our world. And perhaps she will see a need to learn the written word,” Leliana watched him with sharp eyes.

Solas inclined his head.

“Very well,” Cullen granted. “But we cannot keep her here learning letters; we need her where the rifts are. Our main concern are the rifts appearing - two more appeared in the Hinterlands overnight and now there’s noise coming from the Fallow Mire. She needs to close them. Which means that if Solas plans to be her onhand instructor, he will need to be in the field when she is.” Cullen met Solas’s gaze squarely.

The unspoken question hung in the air. “I am familiar enough in combat,” Solas said modestly.

“Speaking of being on the field, a woman called Mother Giselle is requesting to meet the Herald. She is curious about the Inquisition, or more precisely, the Herald.” Leliana smiled.

“She isn’t barking like all the rest about the Herald’s innocence?” Cullen asked.

“She is more concerned about the mage-templar war and the refugees left in their wake.” Leliana looked to Cassandra. “I would suggest meeting her. My scouts have located her at the Crossroads in the Hinterlands, looking after the injured and displaced. If we have even one person from the Chantry on our side, it may be enough to sew seeds of doubt among the others.”

Cassandra sighed. “It is better than waiting here for the Chantry to make a decision about anything. We will be dead by the time they decide anything.”

 

...

 

“No, no, no wait - you mean one of the gods actually looks like a nug? Just - a giant nug?” Varric had stopped writing to look up at her.

Aslaug took a long pull from her ale. “One of our gods comes to us in the form of a war-nug.” Varric looked completely enthralled by that and gave a raspy chuckle.

“Okay, okay, wait. You’ve got _war-nugs?_ As in nugs that you actually use in war?”

“They aren’t the little beasts that roam around. We don’t hunt the big ones. We use them as mounts. They have very sure footing.”

Varric nodded and scribbled intently. “I’m going to need to be much drunker when I actually pen this part to my publisher.”

Aslaug took a moment to herself and looked curiously over at a small group of soldiers playing some game with cards. She saw one of them slide a card from his sleeve and shuffle it with his others.

“Now, so this war-nug god of yours, what is he actually the god of?”

“He is our god of willfulness. He is _very_ stubborn.”

“Any other gods?”

“Many," she said shortly and stared into her empty mug.

Varric looked up from his parchment and followed her gaze. “Oh. I see how you do things.” He waved over the barmaid and requested another round.

Aslaug took another swig from her newly filled flagon. “Some are new ones, some were rebirthed, and a few have stayed with the Hold for many, many generations.”

“Now, can you walk me through what a rebirth is?”

“When a god dies, the Hold mourns. But, for the length of a year we pray and invoke their name, and leave their preferred offerings at a chosen spot. On the final day, the augur will know it is time to invoke the god back into this world and our Hold. The thane leads us in song dedicated to the god and we sing for hours. Enough that the entire Hold is hoarse for days after. The invocation gives the god purpose and new life. And they are reborn.” She gulped more ale. “And we celebrate.”

“I'll just pretend that I understood half of that. Isn't that just summoning a spirit?” He asked.

She shook her head. “To summon a spirit, you must bind it to your will. We bind no god.”

Varric looked at her doubtfully.

Aslaug finished her drink quickly. She felt the flush of the ale take to her ears and neck. She whispered to Varric, “The Avvar, we all share the three great gods, but there's one we don't mention. To invoke his name even once could wake him. Skald, do you wish to hear of the World-Eater, the great beast that gnaws of the roots of our world?” 

Varric leaned and said just as quietly, “Now _that_ sounds like a story.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex entry “Avvar & the gods”
> 
> The Avvar all primarily share the three greatest gods (Lady of the Skies, Korth the Mountain-Father, and Hakkon Wintersbreath) although each Hold has their own gods and worship varies. There are lesser gods that many Holds believe in, but they aren't as steadfast in that belief across the spectrum as the three greatest gods. 
> 
> Some gods stay with a Hold for generations, but when the spirit dies or is killed at some point, the Avvar hold a ritual so they can be “reborn” in the sense that the spirit fills the same duties and will have the same role, but won't be the exact same spirit. 
> 
> And yes, Avvar mages allow a spirit to possess them when they come into their magic so they may be taught in what they believe to be the best way possible, and to have a guardian against what is commonly known as demons. 
> 
> Codex entry “the Avvar & Andraste” 
> 
> The Avvar as a whole don't really care much for Andraste besides the fact that she united the various tribes and helped to lead everyone against Tevinter. She was a good woman to follow, but in her wake she spawned a new culture that did not wish to allow the Avvar their practices and the Chantry was also formed, which the Avvar mistrust due to their subsequent formation of the Templars.


	4. goðgá

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update! And we're finally out of Haven. Thank you so much for those who thought it was worth sticking around, and hopefully you still do and haven’t run away screaming. And thank you for all the reviews this has garnered and kudos and bookmarks, and the people cruising by to read. And if you have questions you don’t want to ask in the comments below, feel free to ask on my tumblr.

The lowlanders were killing each other with little regard for the land, or the trees, or water. Bodies floated in the rivers and streams, bloated with death. Animals were slaughtered carelessly; left open and exposed to the elements with their meat and hide wasted.

Aslaug flushed in anger when she saw a bear with bloody wounds all over its body; dead for days and untouched by people or animals due to all the fighting everywhere.

The meat was rotten and the hide had suffered for it, so she'd had to leave it there.

“Blondie, look at what you did,” Varric muttered at one point while they went around the fighting groups to search for Mother Giselle.

“If he had not done such a thing, or if you and the Champion had stopped him, _Varric,_ this would not have come to pass,” Cassandra spat.

“Are you certain of that Seeker? The tensions between mages and templars had only grown worse, and the Chantry stayed neutral for too long,” Solas reprimanded.

Aslaug had a vague idea of who they were arguing over, although no one had bothered to give her much in the way of details surrounding him. “Who is this person?” She asked, uncaring if it interrupted the nearly heated conversation Cassandra and Solas had begun.

“You do not - no of course not. The man Varric is referring to is a mage, a former Grey Warden who fled to Kirkwall after he became an abomination. He placed a bomb in the Chantry, killing hundreds of innocents due to his hatred for the Templar Order.” Cassandra spoke with authority on the matter although Solas held a peculiar look of disagreement. Oh - Solas had talked a little about it earlier.

“Oh.” She chewed on that for a moment. “I thought your Chantry controlled the templars?”

“Yes and no. The templars are guardians and wardens to mages, the Chantry expects them to adhere to the oaths they have taken. They are the military order of the Chantry, in truth. But it doesn’t matter. He killed a Revered Mother, innocents who had nothing to do with his, his terrorism.”

This would not have happened if these lowlanders and their lowland god hadn’t deemed it necessary to cage and keep their magic-blooded captives like the most honorless Tevinters. But Aslaug kept her peace. If an insult was given amongst the Avvar and it came to blows it would be forgiven or taken to a thane to decide a trial. These lowlanders, she thought, found everything and anything insulting and kept the worst grudges over it. It might've been easy to anger an Avvar, but rarely did they keep true grudges. 

But she heard something else more interesting than their Tower-keepers and their foolish righteousness. “An abomination?”

“Yes. He summoned and bound a demon to him. It had full control over him, in the end,” Cassandra confirmed.

“Now wait, I don’t think Justice was a demon when he...met Anders. The whole thing wasn’t exactly sound decision-making on his part, I agree, but Blondie never intended for this. At least in the beginning,” Varric hastened to explain, defending a man who sounded as if he’d been a friend.

“A hasty and unwise decision, if the spirit had been trapped on this plane. It was still a kind gesture for a friend, nonetheless,” Solas said.

“Kind or not, Justice wasn’t anyone’s friend in the end,” Varric spoke sadly.

“It was a _demon_ , and Anders became an abomination that killed hundreds without remorse.”

“Was he young?” Aslaug asked.

“Uh no, he was closer to my age. Why?” Varric looked over at her.

Aslaug opened her mouth to explain, but Seeker Cassandra stared at her piercingly and she was reminded that although Seeker Cassandra had been fair thus far, she was still a lowlander who called the gods “demons” and even this Anders was an “abomination” who made the mistake of not having other gods to watch over them during their time together.

She snapped her mouth shut and shook her head. “I am sorry for your friend,” she said instead.

Varric nodded and looked out over the burning village they had come to. Screams and battle cries, flame and ice and the sound of steel echoed off in the distance. “So am I, believe me.”

 

 ...

 

The battle for the Crossroads ended quickly, mages and templars slavering madly - not even a coordinated raid, just a mindlessness that Aslaug found difficult to comprehend. It wasn’t unlike putting down a rabid dog. Packs of them.

“Herald of Andraste,” Mother Giselle greeted her when they approached her. The priestess bowed her head and Aslaug wrinkled her nose.

“To you,” she said, irritated with the idea of being so intertwined with their jealous god and their burning woman and the necessity of dealing with their overly complicated politics. She would have minded her manners if people down here could be bothered with their own; attaching a title to her without even asking her name - a title they cared not if she agreed with.

To her credit, the priestess barely blinked. “You do not agree?”

“She isn’t my prophet. And your god isn’t mine.” She was exhausted at having to so consistently repeat herself over this. “But this might be his mark. No one knows.” She showed the woman the woman her palm, scarred but calm. The priestess briefly examined the mark.

“I had heard rumors that you were Avvar, but I refrained from believing them,” Mother Giselle said slowly.

Aslaug knew better than to think they actually called her Avvar. “You mean barbarian,” she corrected. She wasn't so sheltered or deaf that she couldn't hear the whispers that followed her.

Mother Giselle, grace given form, inclined her head. “That is what they used to describe you. I was told _Alamarri_ until someone corrected me, that you came from the Frostbacks.”

“You asked us here for a reason, Mother Giselle. And I do not believe it was to question what tribe the Herald is from,” Cassandra said.  

“The clerics will be amassing in Val Royeaux to address the public on the matter of the Herald, you may wish to confront them there.” The priestess turned her gaze to Aslaug again, taking in her clothing and the war paint on her face. “They need to see you in order to doubt their certainty that the Inquisition is heretical. You can make it so that their certainty is questionable. Their only strength at this time is their unity.”

Sound reasoning, but Aslaug turned away from the conversation and Cassandra took over speaking with the woman when it was obvious she had little love of the idea of addressing people and convincing them that she was sent from their Maker. Not when so many of them looked upon her as if she had spat in their faces after hearing that she bore the title of 'Herald of Andraste'. 

She squatted on the top of a hill, listening to people cry and speak to each other of the last meal they had, who they lost, whether they were attacked by a Tower-keeper or a magic-blooded. People who couldn’t hunt for themselves, couldn’t defend themselves - a part of her was disgusted by the idea that any of them were so helpless and content to be so, to be allowed to be so, and the rest of her pitied them for it. No one in any Hold was so helpless; anyone could fight, anyone could hunt. And still, even so, these people were preyed upon and left defenseless. 

“Something smell bad?” Varric asked from her right.

“Besides the rotting bodies?” She asked back. She looked at him to see his raised brow. She huffed out an impatient sigh. She shook her head. “They want us to pay attention to their priestesses, convince them I am god-marked.” She jerked a chin at the wandering people, Holdless and hungry and shivering in the cold. “But they will leave them.”

The people at the Crossroads were poorly supplied, but at the very least the Inquisition soldiers had moved in to protect them.

“It is necessary to address the clerics,” Solas said from her left. Aslaug jumped slightly with a hiss. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I know it’s necessary,” she insisted. “But why are they more important than these people?” These were not even her people but they didn’t need to be, helpless as babes as they were.

Cassandra came back to them with a stormy expression on her face directed at Aslaug. “We will need to go to Val Royeaux and confirm the Inquisition’s position and intention towards the Breach. Apparently the gossip the clerics have taken to spreading is doing its damage well enough. We must end it.”

“You still hope to gain the Chantry’s acceptance?” Solas asked.

“I hope to prevent outright opposition. Acceptance is beyond them until they are able to choose a Divine,” Cassandra was displeased at the idea of compromise. 

“How are they affected by the war? Are they trapped? Wounded? Starving?” Aslaug demanded.

“No, they are not in immediate danger but the Inquisition could suffer if we allow this continue much longer,” Cassandra said firmly.

“We need to help these people.” Aslaug dug in her heels.

“We will, after we address the clerics at Val Royeaux,” Cassandra said.

“Now. We will help them now.” Aslaug’s mouth thinned into a straight line.

“We need to -”

“They need to eat.” Aslaug cut Cassandra off. “And they can’t withstand the cold, even this little.” Thin-skinned and starving. They would die if help waited.

Cassandra’s brows furrowed. “Very well. But you cannot put off seeing the clerics." Frustration bled through her voice and stance. 

She met Cassandra’s gaze. “I’m not. They’re just not as important as they think,” she said simply.

 

... 

 

Sniffing out caches left behind by the magic-blooded, killing rogue Tower-keepers, hunting rams - it was cleaner work than what would come soon and Aslaug was appreciative for the simplicity of it. The outdoors and the wide open spaces helped ease the frustration that had been bubbling beneath the surface - it wasn’t the Frostbacks she knew, not nearly cold enough, not windy enough but it was fresh air where she didn’t always rub an elbow against someone else.

No gawkers. No priestesses whispering about her marked hand and her wild nature. No priest continuously glaring at her as if she was an affront to the world. No Tower-keepers eyeing her from a distance as she eyed them.

Cassandra was continuously needled by Varric. Their banter back and forth was highly amusing to Aslaug who saw that it was only by force of will that kept Cassandra from attempting to fling Varric as if he were a skipping stone. Solas kept pace with her, correcting her stance or form when she used her magic - she adjusted it and it felt easier with his direction.

“So, I notice you don’t actually carry a staff.” Varric mentioned from behind.

“No.” Aslaug self-consciously adjusted the weight of her round shield strapped to her left arm. The glaive in her right was a gift from Harritt.

“Hear you fight with a spear,” he’d said and thrust one at her, balanced with a barbed tip. “Should do it.” A man of few words. 

“I thought all mages fought with a staff or a book - not that I’m saying I’m not glad for that since watching you breathe ice on someone and then stab them with that spear is terrifying.”

Aslaug flashed a wide smile over her shoulder. “Truly?”

“It’s a little intimidating,” he said.

Aslaug tossed her head back to laugh. “You would charm a snake from its skin, skald.”

Varric chuckled. “That’s flowery talk for you? Is that common for Avvar women?”

“Avvar women want to hear of their best traits,” she said. “How well she fights or hunts or fucks.”

Cassandra coughed at the same time Varric began cackling.

“Are the Avvar so brazen in their compliments?” Solas asked in surprised amusement.

“There is no reason not to be,” she said. “We are not so dainty as you.”

“But - such forwardness is too much, isn’t it?” Cassandra stammered. “Surely, to announce it so casually as you would any other compliment - that is too much.”

“What other compliment would you hear, Seeker Cassandra?” Aslaug wondered aloud.

“Acceptable ones,” she grumbled.

“Those are acceptable to me,” Aslaug pointed out.

Cassandra seemed to visibly deflate. “Ugh.”

 

 ...

 

“Good that someone is restoring order, but I didn’t think it would be one of you mountain-folk,” Horsemaster Dennet remarked upon their arrival.

“This is the Herald of Andraste, and the Inquisition seeks aid from you, Master Dennet,” Cassandra began but Horsemaster Dennet waved her off.

“Just Dennet. And I know you’ve come for mounts, but I’m not giving you Ferelden’s finest so the bandits plugging up the roads can have breakfast. There’s things I need done before I commit those horses to you.” And he gave them his terms.

The black wolves that attacked anyone and anything madly seemed the biggest issue.

Aslaug crouched in the bushes to watch them rend a nug to shreds. “Augur,” she said softly. Solas didn’t react until she gently elbowed his side.

“Hm? _Oh_. You meant me?” He looked surprised.

“There is no one else I would call that. These wolves - are they poisoned? A mind-sickness?” She asked. One of the wolves snarled at the air, at nothing. Their eyes held no focus.

“Perhaps. They may have been driven mad by the Breach. Or a demon took command of the pack.”

“Do they do that? In my experience, demons usually went after people,” Varric grumbled.

“Gods seek out animals they feel connected to,” she whispered. “Remember the god of willfulness? He takes that form because he feels connected to it.”

“God of willfulness?” Cassandra asked, crouched behind Aslaug and Solas.

“He likes looking like a war-nug,” Varric addressed her with a half-smile.

“A _what?_ ”

Aslaug pointed. “They’re leaving.” An unearthly howl pierced the vacuum of sudden silence that only the murmur of the stream before them broke. “They are being summoned.” She stood and slid down the slope at a slower pace, shield lifted and glaive pointed down at her side.

They followed the pack at a distance to a dark hollow of stone where a terror demon, a god so corrupt Aslaug couldn’t place what it once had been, screamed and demanded their death without words. The creature and all the wolves it commanded were dead following a brief battle and Solas affirmed that the wolves left were no longer thralls.

To be so far gone, like the ones at the rift she’d closed by the tree of Tyrdda Bright-Axe near Dennet’s farm - these gods weren’t corrupt. Aslaug had come to realize that they had gone insane. What terrible sickness, what disease did this to them that they could no longer recognize themselves?

“We have to end the fighting between the mages and the templars. They are still harassing the refugees,” Solas said grimly at one point while Aslaug planted the final marker for a watchtower.

“Track them to their dens and kill them,” she agreed. “They will not stop if we ask. They’re rabid.”

“I fear you are correct,” Solas said. She slinked ahead, tracking the deep impression of soles in the dirt, moss and grass flattened, twigs broken and leaves strewn about carelessly.

The tracks left behind created a map that led to a rising ridge overlooking the broken bridge.

Cassandra almost casually pierced through a Tower-keeper’s armor with her sword, pushing ahead of the others. Solas burned their leader where he stood before calling down a storm upon him.

One of the templars got too close to Aslaug, finding purchase on her shield and flinging her arm to the side, but she breathed a cold death into the open slats of his helmet and he choked on air that froze in his throat before she used her glaive to stab into his unprotected neck, wrenching it to the side.

“Terrifying,” Varric reiterated to her after the battle.

“You can only flatter me so much in one day.”

The magic-blooded were holed up in a cave protected by a barrier that Solas took down quickly before they were swamped with summoned elements, Cassandra ignored it and called down some power of hers that chilled Aslaug’s blood to witness. The warrior sapped them of their magic and will and used her shield to send one of them flying.

“What is that?” She hissed to Solas. “What did she do?”

"A templar ability that blocks magic, and is meant to stun targets. It is only used on mages for obvious reasons,” he said calmly. “It is called a holy smite to evoke the idea that it is the Maker’s will, when in reality, their gift comes from consuming lyrium and combat training.”

Cassandra nearly decapitated one of the magic-blooded that tried to find higher ground before yet again calling on that unnatural curse. Aslaug flinched away from it. The final rebel left standing let out a hoarse gasp and collapsed at her feet.

“As of yet, most of the templars we’ve met haven’t had lyrium in a long time, but they are all capable of this if they have a proper lyrium supply.” He cast an unreadable look her way.

Aslaug stared down at the bodies. “All Tower-keepers can do this?” She couldn’t hide the dawning horror in her voice. “Is Seeker Cassandra a Tower-keeper in truth?”

“She isn’t. She’s a Seeker and to my understanding they don’t need lyrium for their abilities but I’m unsure of the specifics. They believe it to be a divine gift from the Maker.” Solas watched her carefully. “Are you alright?”

She tore her eyes away from Seeker Cassandra and met his gaze, unable to ignore the sense of wrongness that permeated the cave. “What god gifts such a curse?” She asked, voice small and all her levity from the day gone.

“Herald,” Seeker Cassandra called from the mouth of the cave. “Come. There is one last place the templars are hiding in, we should drive them out before they have a chance of building any kind of fortification.”  

Aslaug was quiet and Seeker Cassandra took point with Varric trotting beside her.

“She will not hurt you,” Solas reassured her.

Aslaug shook her head. “I trust her word. But there are others of her kind and I do not trust them. Augur, is there nothing to do to protect oneself against that?”

“No. It can only reach so far, but if you are caught in it, there is little to do but brace yourself for a sudden weakness. At least you are versed in some amount of melee combat and can still fight if need be. Few others have such an advantage.” Solas fell silent for a long while and Aslaug was content to let it be, alarm curling in her gut, but he spoke again. “I realize that as uncomfortable as that was for you, there are other things we must discuss when we are not on the road. I can see your knowledge of the Circles and the templars is lacking more than I had originally anticipated. Truly, I hadn’t thought the Avvar were so far beyond their reach. I thought that perhaps rumors or tales…”

“Rumors and tales are wind in the leaves. _That_ was a stone thrown.”

“Point taken. Still, we will need to speak on the matter later.”

“Why can you not tell me now?” Aslaug pulled at his elbow and Solas jerked beneath her touch but she ignored it. He watched her hand with an eerie stillness as if he weren’t used to touch.

“It would upset you while we still have other matters to attend to and could distract you.” She dropped her hand and he looked up. “It is best we do not tempt fate.”

“Is it worse than what I saw?” She asked, jaw tight.

Solas didn’t answer but the expression on his face told her what she needed to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex entry “Avvar social graces”
> 
> Based on interaction with Avvar in Frostback Basin as well as fenxshiral (who is doing amazing work with Project Alamarri and should be primarily credited with this codex entry), the Avvar are a very straightforward people and dislike being questioned regarding their motives, or circling around the topic of a conversation. Above, Aslaug makes the comment that Avvar women like to be complimented on how well they hunt, fight, or fuck. It should be noted that among the Avvar this wouldn’t be considered necessarily vulgar or impolite in any measure. To Cassandra, who is very devout, it’s extremely scandalous to speak so openly and seriously about the matter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Codex entry “Avvar Hold loyalty” 
> 
> In the previous chapter, Aslaug mentions something about “Hold before blood” to Solas, the DA wiki entry regarding this primarily pertains to women who marry and go to live at a new Hold; these women are expected to put their loyalty to their new home before any loyalties they left behind at their old Hold. Here, the situation is different and more complex: Aslaug pledged her loyalty to the Inquisition and its intentions, essentially undertaking the idea that she had left Lurkerhold to join “Havenhold” although there was no official marriage and the others may not consider her to have left Lurkerhold; the idea is that because Aslaug pledged her loyalty, she had left Lurkerhold in spirit so to speak. 
> 
> Codex Entry “Avvar & daily life” 
> 
> The Avvar, as according to the DA wiki, all contribute in some way to the Hold. There isn’t really a gender divide between who hunts, cooks or fights. But it is expected that everyone within the Hold pulls their weight in someway. For instance, they take turns doing the communal cooking in the Hold and it could be a man or woman doing so, all women know how to hunt and fight. The Avvar don’t distinguish between the genders or sexes for that matter when it comes to practicality and necessity (the one place where there is a notable divide is marriage). Aslaug is used to everyone knowing how to do at least a little of everything whereas the people of the Crossroads depend mostly on the one hunter for food or the Inquisition soldiers to protect them. 
> 
>  
> 
> Codex Entry “Avvar & templars” 
> 
> A bit overdue, but considering the magical practices that are alive and well within the Avvar culture and their apathy towards the Chantry and Andraste, it’s safe to say that the Avvar do not, under any circumstance, welcome the templars into the Frostbacks. What would be considered normal and safe, for instance, ushering a spirit into an Avvar mage in order for the young Avvar to have a mentor for their growing magic, would be considered obscene amongst the faithful of Andrastians. Due to their conflicting perspectives on magic and those that use it, it’s easy to understand why the templars are wary of Avvar shamans and vice versa. 
> 
> The open hostility Avvar display to templars is a reason they stray from the Frostbacks in general, and because of their rarity, Avvar don’t always understand or know the full scope of what a templar is capable of. 
> 
>  
> 
> Codex mini entry “sun-wife” 
> 
> Technically a kenning that I used in C2, the term is broken down like this: a wife/woman who shares a bedroll, but only until the sun rises meaning a one night stand, and in the context where Aslaug used it, it basically means a hero-groupie.


	5. reiði

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of you lovely people are amazing and make me so happy; you're all so kind and your encouragement and the fact that you're enjoying this fic gives me life. I’d kiss you but this is only the fifth date. 
> 
> A smaller chapter and another quick update since this is the transition to more exciting things and it'll take a bit longer to crank the next chapter out. And I'll be combing through the previous chapters to edit.

“Solas, you said you would tell me of the Circles. And the Tower-keepers,” Aslaug urged from across the table. She kept her hands wrapped around the flagon of warm cider. “What couldn’t you tell me while we were at the Crossroads?”

They’d returned to Havenhold but a few hours ago with Cassandra rushing to speak with the advisors about Orlais and Mother Giselle at her side. Aslaug had found herself drawn to the merriment lodge. A sweet voice singing a tale she’d never heard, ale and meat and bread; it was enough comfort for her after the exhausting day she'd had and the unpleasant revelation of just what it was that made the Tower-keepers so powerful. Solas had predicted where she’d be and sat silently across from her with a mug of ice water until she prompted him to speak.

“Their very nature is...complex. The Chantry frowns upon magic, and those who are born with it,” he began slowly, fingers trailing in the sweat his cool cup left. “How much do you know about the Circles and the templars?” He asked finally after the singer had finished her final stanza.

“Besides that they throw their spirit-talkers and magic-blooded in towers and pen them like chickens? Little else. We had heard that the templars are strong warriors, well versed in combat but I never thought…” She gesticulated with a hand vaguely. “I never heard that they could take it away.”

“It is not permanent, but it is a powerful attack and cruel to a mage,” he said bitterly.

Aslaug slammed back some of her cider and swallowed with more force than was comfortable. “They take away what someone is born with, a gift not even the gods can give - all because they believe their god and their prophetess wills it.” She leaned forward, voice lowering with the awareness that ears were all around them. “And they say the magic-blooded are unnatural. I felt what happened when Seeker Cassandra did it as if my spirit meant to flee from my body, draining me of my life like a sacrificial rite. Do they not understand what it is to do that to someone?”

Solas nodded once briefly. “The logic surrounding it is...astoundingly strange and short-sighted.” He clasped his hands. “There is no easy way to begin this. When I learned of the complete extent of their intentions, it was difficult to comprehend. The history of the Chantry, the Circle of Magi, and the Templar Order are inextricably joined.” He met her eyes, brow furrowed slightly as it always was and he seemed, for once, to be struggling with words. “I ask that you keep your peace until I’ve finished. I have no wish to begin a debate here and this is meant to be purely academic for your benefit. I share your feelings on these matters. None of what I must tell you is anything I ever wished to pass on. But you must understand the world you are a part of now.” And he sounded sorry for it. His empathy was sincere and she was reminded that Solas was a wanderer from faraway places. He knew what it meant to not be a part of this culture, but the need to swallow it nonetheless.

Aslaug clenched her jaw. “I’ll shut up about it,” she swore. “Tell me.”

He began slowly as if reluctant to begin at all. He started with detailed, historical accounts passed on from books and then extrapolated further with his own insights, the insights of the gods he’d consulted, the dreams he walked and experienced. His tone reached frustrated, angered heights but he kept a solid lid on his temper; he was attempting to educate her firstly.

Aslaug listened quietly without movement or sound: how could she when she bit her tongue hard enough to draw blood, or when her hands were fisted tightly enough to make her knuckles creak? The stunned horror that had come upon her when the Great Wound revealed itself to her, the terror that made a home in her ribs when Seeker Cassandra banished the magic of their enemies and the confused discontent she was unable to hide down in this place was nothing; a forgotten relic of a shadow that quailed beneath the burning in her heart that seared her throat.

 _Tranquility_.

A _lie_.

A lie told to them by their priestesses or their templars or their nobles or those too ignorant of magic and the gods to understand what it meant, what it really meant -

They said it was kinder than death. Kinder then that they would still live and be productive members of society. It was not a death sentence, they insisted. 

No, not death because that was "inhumane", reserved for the worst of crimes; instead they branded them like the lowest of animals and took their dreams and hopes and fears and anything that made them more than walking flesh that could speak, lower than an animal because an animal could still understand and process joy and fear. Lying, slaving, blind bastards of a mange-covered bitch. 

 _A lie._ All that these lowlanders held dear was a _lie_. She disagreed with their politics and their Chantry for reasons she kept to herself because these were not her lands, not her people; she was here not because this was her fight but because the Great Wound still bloomed in the Lady’s bosom and not even her night-veil could hide her scars. But this -

 _This_ was beyond a travesty, beyond the worst desecration. A savagery incomprehensible to her people, a cold violation they turned aside from because they outnumbered their magic-blooded as if they were the root of all problems; as if the land of dreams and the gods were to blame for their being unable to sort out their own feelings and needs. As if all the pain and confusion and suffering of the mortal realm didn't stem from people doing shit like this to each other.

She thought of the robed magic-blooded, softly clad in nothing that would protect them, limited to staffs and the four accepted schools of magic approved by the Circles and templars and - oh, how she had at first scoffed and laughed at them for the childish ignorance, their strange naivete to the world they inhabited alongside the spirits they condemned. How wrong she’d been, how quick to judge, when they had never known, never been allowed to know different.

If something different was offered she had little doubt they would take it. A guiding hand, a ritual in the dark with smoke and starlight and salt, voices singing an invocation to reach the land of dreams, teachers of understanding and patience that wouldn't let them face it alone - they would not be Avvar unless they wished it because to be Avvar and to understand it one would have to be commit to it, but they could be taught as she had been. They could learn that their books didn’t hold all the secrets of the world. They could learn that there were teachers in the trees, in the streams and rivers, and in the mountains and the animals. They would not need these limits they had been shackled with and continued to burden themselves under.

There was more to the world.

Aslaug gestured silently to the door and Solas watched her with careful sharp eyes, expectant and weighing something she couldn’t see. They stood and walked out into the brisker air. Night had fallen during their time in the tavern.

Aslaug looked out over Havenhold. She turned her attention to the mages, huddled in robes and speaking around their fire, laughing but always aware and keeping a wary eye on the Tower-keepers that watched and scowled from afar.

She clenched the hand that bore the god-mark. “If they’re right and their god did choose to mark me, then he knows I’m no lowlander.” The words were tight, coiled like a serpent in her mouth. She wrenched her gaze from the mages to look at Solas. His gaze was heavy but there seemed to be something close to a smile that vanished immediately. “If I bare his mark then he’s leaving his will to me even if his priestesses say otherwise.” And the anger seemed to spill over, fat dripping into fire and popping, sparking hotter flames.

And she couldn’t say anything else, not with the tumult of emotion flooding her as it was.

She didn’t sleep that night, staring up at the wooden beams and in the soft bed with soft pillows and soft blankets made of cotton. The gods were still so quiet and hidden here and she hadn’t had time to learn from Solas how to walk aware in the land of dreams and to shape it as he spoke of doing. She was left in this place with the empty silence from her gods and no comfort from the land.

They would ride for Orlais in the morning. She had little care of being paraded about as the icon of their faith when she kept to her own beliefs, before. The Great Wound was all that mattered until she’d learned more in the tavern. She wasn’t their faith realized. But, if she truly had been delivered by their Maker - she, an Avvar mage, then it meant nothing rewarding for them whether they knew it or not. No god would mark a mortal like this unless they meant it as a gift to those that worshipped them. To give this mark to someone who didn’t honor them; this was a punishment to the ones that prayed to it.

  
...

 

It gleamed. A city of ivory and gold, guarded by lions and populated by people in masks. The sky, although blue and bright, even seemed dull in comparison to this place of Orlais, rich and heavy and beautiful.

Cassandra pressed ahead of her with Varric at her side providing commentary but Aslaug trailed behind still quiet and sullen. She dragged her fingers over a golden statue of a snarling lion, feeling the contours and details of its face, even as she gazed up, up, at the white walls with blue velvet drapes. Solas remained at her side, thankfully not attempting to herd or rush her cautious explorations.

The smells of Orlais were different; richer with herbs she’d never tasted, wines that carried a nearly pungent sweetness, and a kind of scent that resembled something bountiful like a particularly generous summer. Soft, sweet things to hide the rot and decay underneath.

Aslaug turned her gaze from person to person: the women in their exaggerated, billowed skirts that retained their shape no matter which way they turned with long white gloves and colorful elaborate masks, and the men in their pristine trousers and boots, puffed shoulders of their tunics turning every which way; all of them strangely graceful and all of them suspicious of the outsider clearly in their midst.

Strangely, they didn’t give Solas a second thought when it was obvious he was as much an outsider as she.

Cassandra had managed to convince her to do away with most of her war paint and had been exasperated by the fact that Aslaug had insisted on it at all; "We're only meeting with the clerics, not going into battle. The day will be difficult enough without them thinking you're going to raid them." 

Aslaug had kept the twin stripes of black on her left cheek and the line from her bottom lip to her chin, the palm prints she’d made in the hollows of her eyes. The white was all gone, and it wasn’t as detailed as Aslaug had made it before, but she refused to remove the rest. This wasn’t meant to be a preparation for battle, after all. It was so that none of them could deny what she was, so they would know that she was no child waiting for a hand to hold hers. 

Aslaug heard the angry murmurs of a crowd, the thick, strange accents that rose and spoke and a part of her reveled in their apparent contempt.

“The Inquisition brings before us a false prophet, a wicked heathen to subvert the will of the Maker. There, before you all! A savage!”

Aslaug’s head snapped up at the last word. A priestess with her strange hood pointed at her. The crowd that had been speaking angrily silenced abruptly.

Cassandra hissed. “She is the Herald of Andraste, the only one alive capable of closing the rifts. We only wish to seal the Breach; not to spread heresy.”

The priestess brushed her aside. “Look upon her; covered only in animal skins and paint as if such an uncivilized woman would ever carry the mark of our Maker, of our beloved Andraste - I say _she_ is the Divine’s murderer, killed her as a sacrifice to a heretical god!”

And the crowd, like a living thing, swelled in anger. Aslaug reached for her glaive at her back but Solas laid a hand on her arm: “Do not tempt them. Give them no reason to attack,” he whispered urgently.

Against her better judgement, she let her arm fall to her side again and she moved away from Solas. “Herald,” he said but she ignored him. He would advise caution and she didn’t want to be careful, not now.

She stepped forward, met the crowd with a raised chin. “My name is not _savage_. I am Aslaug Gunhilddotten and I am Avvar. _Not_  'savage'. Were I responsible for any crime against your Divine I would answer to it gladly but I’m not; no god of mine demanded any such sacrifice or payment and no Avvar worth their salt would risk a war with the lowlands.” She kept moving forward, meeting the eyes behind the masks and forcing them to move back. They made tittering noises, attempting to rebuke her but not doing anything substantial to stand in her way. Her focus remained on the priestess. “You seek the murderer, but you seek poorly.”

Cries of outrage raised up. “You dare?” The priestess shook her finger at Aslaug. “You dare mock our grief for Divine Justinia?”

Aslaug barely withheld the snarl. “I mock nothing, not your grief, not your Divine. But I saw no Chantry, no priestesses at the temple, near the Great Wound. All the people you left to fend for themselves at Havenhold, at the Crossroads - we have taken care of. Clothed, fed, protected. And you were here.” She waved an arm slowly at the opulent surroundings. "Safe behind your golden gates."

“Use your poisoned words elsewhere, barbarian, the templars have returned to the Chantry. They will protect the people from your Inquisition.” She pointed and Aslaug turned at the sound of mail clapping against more mail. Tower-keepers. A squadron of them.

Fear crept in, distilled in her heart with a potency that would have frozen her if it hadn’t been so quickly consumed by the fires lit the night before and stoked by the priestess.

Aslaug  _burned_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex entry “Spirit-talkers, magic-blooded & shamans”
> 
> In the DA verse, a spirit-talker is a mage (here, it’ll be the understanding that someone who has magic won’t necessarily be a mage, according to Avvar society this doesn’t place them in a specific category like is does with Orlais/Ferelden), a magic-blooded is someone who does have magic but it isn’t certain if they were taught or if they are particularly good at it or use it (having magic doesn’t inherently mean that someone is a mage to an Avvar where it would be understood that you had a teacher and often use it, or it may refer to the fact that this person comes from a line that possesses magical ability). And a shaman may not have any magical ability at all, most do but they are primarily the “scholars” who look out for signs from their gods, changes in the land and keep the traditions of their lore alive. 
> 
> Codex entry “Avvar & the Tranquil”
> 
> Avvar, as a culture, do not accept the idea of capture. They prefer death, and it is part of the reason you rarely ever have an Avvar holding someone else hostage unless they lack honor (Hand of Korth, i.e). To sever a mage from the Fade as punishment, to the Avvar is the worst possible means of capture; a capture that takes place, and leaves the one who is “captured” unable to fight their way out, or even want to leave. If you also take into account the reverence they hold towards their gods and needed to communicate with them, this is possibly the worst thing an Avvar would ever hear or see. A crime that likely surpasses Tevinter’s slavery practices.


	6. bjóðja

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, you’re wonderful people who keep reading and lovely people who review or leave kudos. Next chapter picks up speed again with character introductions.
> 
> And you know sometimes when I’m writing Aslaug I honestly expect her to say “You know nothing Jon Snuuuu.” Just me? Ok. Sorry.

The tower-keepers circled around the crowd and Aslaug continued to follow them with slow steps. She didn’t move for her glaive or shield, or try to summon ice and frost to her hands and lips.

Powerfully built, heavily armored, with grim looks of determination, they strode beside their beckoning priestess - and one of them slammed his fist into the back of her head. The old woman gave out a cry and crumpled to the ground. Aslaug tensed and resisted the urge to move to get to the old woman’s side - these were the great, mighty templars? The tower-keepers beat old women, the priestesses they supposedly protected?

Gasps rose up around the crowd and one of the young Tower-keepers looked down at the ground in surprise and made to pick the priestess up until the oldest tower-keeper spoke in a rough voice, “Still yourself. She is beneath us.”

His eyes locked on Aslaug and his lip curled as if he smelled something rotten.

Aslaug bared her teeth.

“Lord Seeker Lucius?” Cassandra came forth but the Lord Seeker was quick to interrupt her.

“You will not address me. You have no right. You come here with your heretical movement, spearheaded by a barbaric, illiterate savage from the mountains.” The older Seeker’s eyes didn’t deign to look at Cassandra. “And you are company to liars; saying that only your Inquisition can close the Breach. I see before me a dwarf who was at the Champion’s side, on the mages’ side when the rebellion began, an elven apostate and a woman who seeks to relive past glory, and yet out of all of these offenses, your _Herald_ is the worst.”

Cassandra looked taken aback. “Lord Seeker?”

“Do not address me. You no longer have the right." He sneered at the group. "Templars! Val Royeaux is not worthy of our protection. We march.” And as one, they all turned away.

“Why did you come here, if not to assault an unarmed, old priestess?” Aslaug moved forward to follow them, going around Cassandra.

Lord Seeker Lucius turned to her. “I came to see what frightens old women. And to laugh.”

“You came to see a threat.” She bared her teeth again, nothing close to a grin. If Cassandra hadn’t told her to remove most of her war paint, the effect would’ve been more stunning. As it was, at least it darkened her eyes and made her look fierce and strange to these lowlanders. “Say whatever you will. All I see is an old man using fear to raise himself up beyond what the gods intended.”

“Be silent you filthy barbarian!” The one at his side in hunting leathers and a cap strode up to Aslaug with a hand on a sword pommel. She rocked back on her heels and reached for her glaive. “Your kind are not fit to breathe the same air as his lordship,” he hissed.

“And look at you, so happy to please like a bitch in heat,” she snarled. “You come here to face the Inquisition and yet all I’ve seen is a show of force against your elders.” She crossed a few steps so she was nearly nose to nose with the man and he seemed surprised by her gall. She looked away from him and met the Lord Seeker’s gaze. “You don’t even know what it is your god wants, but you use him as an excuse for your own will,” she said disgustedly.

Everything after that happened rather suddenly.

The man before her struck her across the face with a gauntleted hand. Aslaug’s head snapped to the side from the force of it but she hauled back and sent her forehead crashing into the bridge of his nose with a yell. He cried out in pain a moment after his nose crunched and a spray of blood followed.

She heard Cassandra shout, the cocking of Varric’s crossbow and the templars unsheathing their weapons.

The man before Aslaug tried to claim his sword but Aslaug brought her knee to his stomach powerfully and yanked his belt from him hard enough to snap it. His sheathed sword clattered to the cobblestones.

He stumbled back from to the safety of his brethren. Aslaug wiped the blood from her cheek with her sleeve. With a final, vicious look at the Lord Seeker who hadn’t moved during the confrontation, she spat at the feet of the tower-keepers.

The Lord Seeker’s gaze fell momentarily on the spot where her spit had landed and he jerked his head to the side. “March, templars. Ignore the heathen. She is just that.”  

They marched away and the crowd of civilians parted and let them pass by with a wide berth.

“Herald, we did not come here to start a fight.” Cassandra came up beside her and turned Aslaug by the shoulder to face her. “What you did was foolish.”

“It is foolish to defend them after what you saw,” she snapped back.  

She turned to where the old woman still lay on the ground, stunned and in pain. She groaned. Aslaug touched her shoulder and she recoiled. “I suppose you feel satisfaction at the way this turned out,” she said in her rolling accent.

“No,” Aslaug said. “I didn’t want you hurt. But I had no part of that. That was you and yours.” She gripped the old woman again by her shoulders and slowly lifted her to her feet where she swayed but Aslaug kept her grip tight and took most of the woman’s weight. “Solas. Do we have anything for her?”

Solas came forward solemnly, opening a pouch and handing her a vial that she forced on the woman.

“Didn’t you have a part of it? It was the Inquisition’s creation that led to this. You had to have known it would come to this,” she slurred.

Aslaug scowled at the top of her head. “I cannot know the future and neither can you. I came to help. You left your people starving in the cold to fight your tower-keepers and the mages that went mad under your watch. The Inquisition fixed that. You cannot claim to be innocent. Your Chantry failed.”

“We can only hope to do the right thing. We could not take one side without forsaking the other in this. We had only our faith to guide us.”

Aslaug let go of the woman once she was sure she wouldn’t fall. “Avvar are guided by our gods and our beliefs. But we accept that nothing holds the answer to everything.”

“You do not understand,” the woman said impatiently.

“No, I don’t. But _you_ don’t either.” She returned and walked away from the woman and the crowds of Orlesians back to where Varric seemed to be calming Cassandra.

Solas, now at her elbow, spoke. “Cassandra and the Commander will not thank you for that.”

“I am not doing this for thanks.” She stopped and turned to him. “How can you walk among them and be so calm? How can any of the mages?”

“There was never any other choice.” Solas kept her gaze and he gave a smile that held a strangely keen edge. “It seems you may change that.”

“I will.” Whether it was the will of the gods or some consequence of coincidence, it all led to her being here, with these people and if they turned to her to make decisions for them, to fix their mistakes and their stumbling, she would.

A polite cough interrupted them.

“Excuse me, are you the Herald of Andraste? I was told to give you this.” A well dressed young man extended an envelope sealed with wax to Aslaug.

She immediately passed it to Solas.

The young man didn’t so much as blink. He bowed briefly. “I’ll be on my way.”

Solas peeled the wax off and read the letter. Aslaug peered over his shoulder. Sigils covered the front of the paper. “What does it say?” She asked when she saw him furrow his brow.

“It seems you’ve attracted attention from the Orlesian court. A Madame de Fer has invited you to attend a gathering so she might meet you.” He thought for a moment when Aslaug leaned back. “You may wish to discuss this matter with Lady Montilyet, however. Politics and diplomacy are her fields of expertise.”

If Aslaug had anything to say, it was cut short by Cassandra’s appearance. “We make for Haven. We have much to discuss.” She cut a sharp glance Aslaug’s way but her attention was caught by something over the other woman's shoulder. "Grand Enchanter Fiona?"

  
...

 

Not even the scent of roast ram and the heady cheese that filled the room teased her hunger. Everything tasted like ash and Aslaug couldn’t even enjoy the ale Varric had slid in front of her earlier. She hadn’t been able to take the suffocating air of the tavern and had left her flagon where it was, chose to forgo the food Flissa the barmaid had left out for her.

Jaw clenched, she sucked on her teeth.

The advisors and Cassandra had holed themselves up in the war room following their harrowing return from Orlais. Cassandra had barely spoken to her the entire way, save to yell at her as though she was just a child.

“You cannot directly challenge Lord Seeker Lucius, we need assistance in closing the Breach!” Seeker Cassandra had stated furiously. “What you did -” she'd slashed her arm through the air as though it would have prevented the previous events. “You will make it difficult for the Inquisition to ally with the templars. For all we know, the mages may have planned what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and since you say you cannot remember -”

“Peace, Seeker. We do not know that it was the mages, it could very well have been the templars or some other interloper. What we do know is that Aslaug did not intend to react as she did; the concept of templars is new to her. And her culture doesn’t look kindly on their order in the first place.” Solas had placed himself beside Aslaug firmly, leaning on his staff.

“No,” Aslaug shook her head. “I will not ask the templars. We will look to the mages,” she’d said. Cassandra had given her such a look of anger but Aslaug stood firm. “I will not go to  _them_. They beat those who cannot defend themselves, and they turned to their weapons first. Not me. Not us.”

“Have a care of what you say,” Cassandra warned. “We may need them. And you forget _you_ taunted them.”

Aslaug eyed her. “A warrior should know the difference between fighting hand to hand and drawing blades. There’s intent. I don’t know if your people ever really needed them.” And she’d not said another word to Seeker Cassandra afterward, and the other woman seemed to agree with that.

Havenhold was just beginning to show signs of the coming winter. For all that, it was snowy here with high winds, and with it carried the heady scent of pine, it wasn’t the true Frostbacks she knew. She longed for the comfortable routine of Lurkerhold.

She missed Hagal the holdbeast, her fellow spirit-talkers and the hunters and the warriors. She missed her gods and the augur.

She reached out to the gods in her dreams here for answers, but too many of them stayed away. Whether it was from her god-marked hand or the fact that gods in the lowlands were forever wary, she wasn’t sure, but she was rarely ever able to approach any of them. The corrupted gods wandered in droves.

They spoke of sweet promises in return for a host, in return for blood and the ability to walk freely in the mortal realm. It was beyond her capability and belief to bind a god to a mortal body. Gods occasionally wandered the mortal world, but that was often for a specific reason or purpose to help. But they didn’t belong in mortal lands any more than she belonged in the land of dreams.

She'd banished the corrupted gods from her, stopping at times if they were persistent and killing them so they could be rebirthed elsewhere.

She longed for the true Frostbacks. It wasn’t nearly cold enough down in the lowlands for all that the people around her shivered in their layers of fur and heavy boots. She wanted the chill of ice in her bones down to the marrow, her gods and others’ gods all around her free and incapable of being wary of mortal creatures.

There was no one like her down here. She had underestimated how lonely it would get, and how burdensome that loneliness felt; a harness about her chest, strapped to some unseen anchor.

She took comfort in the presence of Varric the stone-son skald who always had a tale on hand, and Solas the leaf-eared augur. Both were not entirely true to the titles she described them as, but they were near enough in their own rights.

But even they were very, very different. Varric wasn’t like most of the dwarves she knew; most of them being traders or castless come to do business with the Avvar, he spoke as if he were an old adventurer, he was a skald but seemed to be summoned for a higher calling; first the Champion’s greatest companion and now here with the Inquisition against the Great Wound in the sky. He was meant for a hero-mark, an ascension to legends although he never wrote about himself as the hero; the makings of a real legend. 

And Solas...Aslaug didn’t know many Dalish. They weren’t fond of the Frostbacks, and never liked sharing hunting grounds with the Avvar simply because they didn’t like sharing hunting grounds with anyone but other Dalish clans - and who could blame them with their history? And they found the Avvar to be brutish; they shied away from their concepts of magic and the land of gods - not so much as the Chantry lowlanders, but enough to make tensions high.

The few Dalish Aslaug did know called her ‘shemlen savage’ while pointing finely made arrows at her eyes or heart. They had once trespassed on her Hold’s hunting grounds without seeking a guest-welcome from the thane. That hadn’t lasted. The warriors and spirit-talkers had surged upon them in the middle of the night, chasing their halla away while the hunters had herded irate bogfishers into their camping area. The rare Dalish clan that passed by after that would keep their distance, although they would occasionally trade. She knew of several Holds that were familiar, and even friendly to Dalish clans but they were a select few. 

But Solas was not Dalish. And he didn’t seem like any city elf she’d ever met, although her interaction with the city elves was even more limited than with the Dalish.

He was nothing like what she had imagined, truth be told.

And perhaps she overstepped her boundaries by wondering if it made him lonely the way she was down here with the other humans.

She thought of seeking one of her companions out, but thought better of it, because she couldn’t rely on their company all her time down here. She wasn’t some crying whelp lost in the mountains.  

She ignored the soldiers and curious scouts and wandered further out of Havenhold, passing the stables and the training yard. The wind hissed through the leaves and called her deeper in the sparse forest of the low mountain area. It promised time away from the lowlanders and a peace only found in the wild places of the world.

She followed the call.

 

...

 

“I’m just saying that maybe you shouldn’t talk to her like she’s a toddler.” Varric tossed his hands into the air. “She’s perfectly capable of understanding speech; she just happens to disagree with some of your beliefs.”

“I understand that she is not a child, Varric. But she doesn’t understand our customs and the appropriate way to manage things seems to be completely lost on her.” Cassandra paced in front of the war table.

“Do you? I mean, you yourself said that the Inquisition isn’t an arm of the Chantry. So if she doesn’t want to make nice with the templars, then is it really such a crime? I’m pretty sure the Avvar like mages and _really_ don’t like templars.” 

“It’s less a case of her reacting to the templars and more about the patterns in which she addresses people. Cassandra does have a point; she must learn that she cannot treat people here the way she would in any Avvar Hold.” Josephine scribbled on her stack of papers. “She needs more information about diplomacy and its history here. We cannot fault her for not knowing something she never needed to know before or hadn't been taught.”

“She could have cost us the chance to speak with the templars.” Cullen tapped the map. “It was a mistake to bring her to Val Royeaux.”

“Not entirely. Whatever the case was with the templars, it’s obvious the mages are looking to the Inquisition for protection in return for their aid.” Leliana smiled. “And it was not a loss with the clerics. They are divided. They saw the templars strike one of their own and leave without extending their protection to the people. They also saw an Avvar woman of the Inquisition help a Chantry Mother and they all heard her declaration that the Inquisition stepped in to assist refugees.”

“You cannot be excusing her behavior Leliana,” Cassandra said aghast.

“I excuse nothing. She comes from a culture we know little of.” She looked over to the elven apostate standing in the shadowed corner of the room. “And aside from Solas and Varric, none of us have asked her.”

Solas, aware now that everyone in the room was looking at him strode to the table and placed the tips of his fingers on its edge. “We cannot expect her to react to things the way any of you would. She comes from a vastly different culture that is unashamed of itself. That _she_ is unashamed of. To expect her to react to these matters as a Circle mage or a woman born in the city gives her no credit. She is not a fool, but it would rash to expect her to remain silent.”

“Enough,” Cullen waved. “It’s been a long day. Let’s retire for the day and...we’ll send Aslaug and a small entourage to meet with this Madame de Fer.”

Josephine inclined her head. “Of course. I’ll send the Madame a letter accepting the invitation.”

The three advisors filed out of the room followed by Cassandra who gave a brief glance to the remaining non-humans in the room.

Varric rested his shoulder against the war table. “You sounded impressed.”

Solas pursed his lips. “I am. I’ve never had the opportunity to speak at length with one of the Avvar. I’ve seen them in the Fade, but my interaction with the memories was limited. Her views are...refreshing.”

Varric scratched his jaw. “She’s different alright,” he chuckled. “Makes me feel bad for the Orlesian nobles. They have no idea what they’re dealing with.”

Solas smiled.


	7. tala

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a message on tumblr from an anon who read the story if I wouldn’t mind posting what I listen to (if any music) when I’m writing TIFTM, and if I wouldn’t mind posting what the chapter titles mean and what the Avvar names I’ve used mean. I had a couple similar messages so i figured why not. As I said before, I’m taking traditional old Norse names to use as Avvar. But, I’ll post all of that below any codex entries at the bottom. 
> 
> I’m also really stoked that several reviewers were excited by Aslaug’s different reactions/views. Tbh I waffled a bit for it since I prefer a more scholarly/diplomatic route when in DA:I, but I felt that it wouldn’t mesh well with someone who was raised Avvar. And I’m so excited about the first character meetings and character interactions but the one I’m looking forward to the most is Cole. Because ohmygod. 
> 
> Thank you for the reviews, views and kudos - you're all lovely people and I love hearing from you. There's going to be a bit of a delay on the next chapter but that's due to me needing to plan out the next chapters and such before I post the next one. Thank you all again!

Gasps rose up all around her. Aslaug strode forward and paid the tittering nobles no mind. Cassandra and Josephine had lost the fight to make her leave her war paint aside. Cullen allowed it with a brief, “They're Orlesian. Maker knows she'll need it.”

And Leliana had smiled that secret cat’s smile at her wordlessly. Varric and Solas trailed after her while Cassandra spoke with a group of Chantry priestesses near the entrance.

The war paint she'd chosen covered her face and neck in white, the black paint swept beneath her eyes and a triangle over her nose gave her face a hollow, skeletal look were it not for the jagged, wide open jaws she'd painted in black over her mouth that extended to the bottom of her ears.

She'd braided two locks of hair tightly so they hung in her otherwise heavy mass of hair. She at least had removed her customary furs and leathers in exchange for lighter leather and mail. It had been her one point in compromise.

The Orlesian nobles murmured _barbarian_ and _savage_ and _illiterate puppet_ as if she couldn't hear them. In an Avvar Hold, she would have been honor-bound to answer it with a closed fist or a challenge. In the lowlands, she was honor-bound to keep silent about it. So she ignored the masked men and women around her.

Varric was busy making nice with several Orlesians but Solas lingered nearby. “Where is she?” Aslaug asked and stared down a couple of Orlesians that hissed about the "filthy knife-eared apostate". They turned and left quickly.

Solas was relaxed, eyes half lidded in an almost reptilian contemplation. She wasn't fooled - he was likely the most aware one there. “Presumably waiting to make a grand entrance. The people in her salon are so focused on you that she likely needs some way to steal the attention. You command much of it.” He gave her a nearly fond look.

Aslaug’s attention wandered to the stairs and the gossiping people around them. “How do you know she's waiting?”

“She is Orlesian,” he said with a finality Aslaug couldn't disagree with. It seemed to be an accepted opinion about Orlesians.

She assumed it was lowlander wisdom she would learn over time.

A polite cough drew her attention from Solas. He pulled back into the shadows and Aslaug turned to face the interloper. A masked man greeted her with a politeness that reeked of falsehood, “What a pleasure to meet you, my lady. Seeing the same faces at every event becomes so tiresome. So you must be the guest of Madame de Fer or Duke Bastien?”

A woman who had been orbiting the edge of their bubble came closer. “Are you here on business, lady herald? I have heard the most curious tales of you. I see that at least some of the rumors are true. A real Avvar!” She exclaimed in what seemed like delight.

Aslaug crossed her arms and raised her brows. “What have you heard?”

“That when you stepped from the Fade, Andraste herself delivered you to do the Maker’s work!” She clapped her hands excitedly. “Tell me, is it true that you have converted to Andrastianism? Oh my, it would truly be like our prophet has come back to us.”

“I do not know who or what delivered me. Providence or coincidence, it doesn't matter. I have little memory of it,” she replied as graciously as she could - minding her manners as best as she could estimate by the request of a stressed Josephine. The diplomat has always been kind and understanding; Aslaug could at least _try_.

“Ah that is most unfortunate. However, if your people are as colorful as you, the Inquisition should attend more of these parties,” she flattered.

“The Inquisition? Hah! What a load of pig shit,” a loud grating voice exclaimed. Another noble in a mask descended the stairs and addressed Aslaug. He strode passed her without a glance. “Washed-up sisters and crazed Seekers? No one can take them seriously. Everyone knows this is just a group of political outcasts grabbing for power.” He spun to face her finally with the expectation of having won some fight he’d initiated.

Aslaug withheld the snort of laughter - she could smell his drink from feet away and his softness belied his fighting words. She would need no weapon to fight and take her win. Josephine’s pleading face floated in at her memory. She would minder herself as she'd been asked to, until it stopped being effective and then she would respond as she, as an _Avvar_ , was meant to.

She straightened her spine and planted her feet. “Aslaug Gunhilddotten answers your accusation. Who accuses me and mine?” She demanded with significantly less aggression than the situation would have afforded if this had been an Avvar matter.

“If you were a woman of worthy of my answer, I would give it. You are, however, beneath me.”

She gave him a look that made the black paint of her jaws draw up like a snarl. “You make false claims about me and mine, yet all I see is a man sitting here so prettily behind walls from the war. The Inquisition was there, fighting and keeping people safe. Where were _you_?” She was tired of repeating where the Inquisition had been, tired of rebutting the same argument over and over to the spoilt people who had no idea how the world burned beyond their city of gold.

“Do not attempt to avoid the charges made against you! If you were a woman of honor, you would answer to your crimes against the Divine,” and he reached for his rapier.

Aslaug didn’t reach for her glaive, because in the next moment the man was frozen in place. _Powerful_ ice magic. Very powerful.

“My dear marquis, how unkind of you to use such language in my house...to my guests.” A cultured voice spoke, silencing the other nobles. Aslaug looked up to see a tall dark-skinned woman in resplendent white with a formidable headpiece. She glided down the steps with one hand on the polished railing. Aslaug backed away several steps from the man. “You know such rudeness is...intolerable.” She moved in a confident, shameless sort of way that demanded respect towards them. The man blubbered a half-assed apology to the woman but ignored Aslaug altogether.

“My lady, you’re the wounded party in this unfortunate affair. What would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man?” She turned dark eyes to Aslaug.

The Avvar saw the fine tremble in his body and the poised stillness of the mage. She wanted to say to the woman that she should release him so she could meet his challenge in the ring appropriately - he had insulted not only her but the people of Havenhold. It was a heavy enough crime to be met with steel and blood. “Let him go. All he is, is a squealing pig and I’ve no time for it.”

There seemed to be a distinct - approval? - in the woman’s eyes. “As you wish, my lady. You have your life, marquis. Poor marquis, issuing challenges like some Fereldan dog lord. And all dressed up in the doublet your aunt gave you for the grand tourney. Such a shame to think that all the brave chevaliers and soldiers who would have competed left for war this morning...and you’re still here. Run along my dear, I believe your business, if you had any, has concluded.” She flapped an uncaring hand his way.

The marquis tucked tail and left quickly.

Aslaug’s eyebrows were high. That was impressive. She wouldn't mind minding her manners if Josephine could teach her how to do that. 

The woman, who she believed to be Madame de Fer, turned to her with a brilliant smile. “May we speak, my dear?”

They walked a short distance away - Cassandra was interrogating Solas and Varric but all three kept her in their sights - and the mage leaned against a window. “My name is Court Enchanter Vivienne. I’ve heard so much about you.” Her gaze lingered on the thick, cracking war paint on Aslaug’s face. “I gather you know why I sent you the invitation. At the very least, Josephine Montilyet would have guessed it and hopefully passed it on to you.”

She hadn’t. But Aslaug wasn’t completely foolish. She agreed that she was very ignorant of many customs in the lowlands but there were some things that spanned across any culture. She met her gaze evenly. “She said you wished to join.” She thought of the powerful command over her magic, the easy way she strode in the crowd and how she handled the marquis. She spoke like a thane and that set Aslaug on her guard. “What do you have to offer?” Anyone who joined in Havenhold needed to supply their talent. Everyone had to have a responsibility.

The woman’s smile was like a crocodile's. “Oh my dear, I have much to offer your Inquisition.”

 

...

 

Upon leaving the duke’s estate, an arrow with a message was fired at the company’s feet and Cassandra drew her blade with a gasp. “Are we under attack?”

Solas bent to retrieve the message. “It is a warning. Someone within the city wishes to kill the herald. There are...instructions, I believe to find caches of information hidden in the city.”

“You believe?” Cassandra asked doubtfully, slowly putting her blade away.

“The handwriting is atrocious and the spelling leaves much to be desired, but yes. I believe they are instructions.” He passed the note to the Seeker.

Cassandra frowned down at it. “Chicken scratch,” she declared.

“What do the caches look like?” Aslaug asked. Her eyes darted to the high stairways and buildings over them. She couldn’t see where their archer had gone.

“Red pouches, one near the docks and the other near a popular eatery.” Solas craned his neck to look near where the scent of food was coming from.

Varric laughed abruptly. “Shit, red pouches? Oh joy. I think I know who our _friends_ might be. But I’ll explain once I know I’m right.”

The pouches were at least easy to find - and according to Solas all of them had poor handwriting which led him to speculate that the people helping them were likely commoners. The clues led them to a long alleyway full of armed mercenaries who were all aware of who Aslaug was.

The twisting alleys gave way to a door that as soon as Aslaug pulled open, a burst of fire nearly seared her nose off. She cursed and ducked, dodged out of the way of another flare. “Herald of Andraste,” another masked prick declared. She was getting tired of Orlais. “How much did you expend to discover me? It must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably.”

Annoyed and hating the feeling of the leather and mail with her sweat on her skin, and feeling absolutely done with all of Orlais, she responded shortly. “No one knows who you are, you clean-handed nug-thumper.”

"You don't fool me. I'm too important for this to be an accident. My efforts will survive in victories against you elsewhere," he continued apparently oblivious to the glaive Aslaug was preparing to throw in his mouth, if only to make him stop talking. The pained shout of a man behind him caught his attention and he turned partially. 

A lean she-elf wielding a bow took aim at him while a body crumpled to her feet lifelessly. "Just say what," she dared. 

"What is the -" his words were cut off as he gargled on the arrow shot in his mouth. Aslaug pursed her lips and nodded approvingly. That was good timing on the archer's part. Very good aim. 

"Ugh. Squishy one, but he heard me, right? 'Just say what' - rich tits always try for more than they deserve." The archer in ragged leggings and a tunic that had been repurposed several times over meandered over to the masked man on the ground, arrow sticking straight out of his mouth. With a grunt, she continued. "Blah, blah, blah. Obey me. Arrow in my face." She tucked the gory arrow in her quiver and came to stand before Aslaug who had planted the butt of the glaive on the ground. "So you followed the notes well enough...glad to see you're..." She paused, scrunched her nose in confusion. She looked Aslaug up and down. “Heard you were one of them tribal Fereldans.”

Aslaug sighed audibly. “I am no Fereldan.”

“Right. Whatever. Point is, you’ve got the glowy hand.” She pointed at Aslaug’s god-marked hand. “And I want in. You’re all trying to put things back the way they’re supposed to be.” She crossed her arms over her skinny chest. “So, what say you, lady herald?”

Aslaug cocked her head. She had no idea what to say - but who was she to turn away someone who wanted to help? “Meet us at Havenhold. But first I’d have your name.”

“Haven,” Cassandra corrected dryly behind her.

“Name’s Sera, I'm here to help. We, all the people, thought might be best if you’re not dead yeah? Anyway, this is cover, get 'round it. Found you now, rather keep you not-dead.” She pointed at the stacks of crates beside them. 

"Why?" Cassandra's tone was suspicious.

"Because, there's guards - hired by him or people who were his people or maybe they hired him and he didn't know it, but they're coming because _you're_ here," Sera explained quickly, hopping up to the top of one of the crates, drawing her bow again. 

" _What_?" Cassandra was officially equal parts annoyed and confused. 

"But don't worry!" Sera giggled, launching arrows, but the rest of what she said was lost at the sound of more noise coming from a nearby alley.

The roar of men charging caught Aslaug's attention and she readied herself for battle but she faltered when she saw all of them missing pants. Some wore underwear. Others did not. Cassandra made a loud noise of dismay. At her side, Solas sighed. Aslaug clucked her tongue. 

"You stole their pants?" Aslaug asked, shield at the ready and she eviscerated one that got too close her. 

"Yeah," the archer was laughing, lighting her arrows on fire and bouncing from the crates to the balcony overhead, and down again. 

" _Why._ " Cassandra didn't ask. It was a command that held a concentration of anger. Aslaug saw the red flush over her cheeks and nose and started to laugh quietly. 

"Why not?" Sera jabbed back. 

The men were more or less defeated, some of them had turned tail and ran away into the night, still unclothed. Sera looked to Aslaug. "Haven _hold_ then?" She sent a sly look Cassandra's way as she said it. The Seeker made a disgusted noise. "See you there, lady herald. This will be grand." And she faded into the night, scaling a wall and vanishing quickly thereafter.

“Hah!” Varric crowed when she was gone. “I knew she was a Red Jenny.”

“What?” Cassandra snapped.

“What is a Red Jenny?” Aslaug looked down at Varric.

“I’ll explain on the way to the ship.”

  
...

 

They were set to meet the mysterious man with no name but a legend-mark. She had never met someone with a legend-mark before, except her thane, but she wasn’t sure if the one with that name even knew that he’d taken a legend-mark - or that he was not supposed to take one for himself.

She’d looked forward to the journey, to roam beyond the tame wilderness of the Hinterlands and exhausting golden walls of Orlais, until they actually arrived at the Storm Coast. It was lashed with heavy, stinging rain and the sea roared fitfully, crashing wave after wave upon the rocky shore. She was lucky she had left her furs behind at the behest of Cassandra but had kept her oiled leathers - skins of young bogfishers thinned with a thin rock scrape - and it did well. Better, she thought, than the cloth of the Inquisition scouts.

Scout Harding, a stone-daughter and possibly their version of the master of the hunt, greeted them and commented on her leathers. “Nice leathers. The water just slides off.” She raised an eyebrow at Aslaug.

Aslaug didn’t bother hiding her smirk. “Young bogfisher. Might your scouts do with some? Prevents water from sinking in and from mud sticking.” The leathers would stink for the first few weeks upon being finished, but surely anyone would expect that. Bogfishers were marsh beasts. Filthy things.

The dwarf woman gave her a smile and inclined her head. “I’ll that under advisement Your Worship.”

Aslaug was still irritated by the title but she waved it away - she was giving up on forcing the lowlanders to not use those titles on her. They seemed too in love with titles.

The Iron Bull was stationed somewhere at the shore, finishing another job and Cassandra had said it would be best to see what they could do in battle if they wished to have their services.

Even with the distance atop the hill where the group, which included a solemn Solas, a sodden Varric and an irritated Cassandra - Varric’s doing - she could see the markings of Tevinters. The unmistakeable helms with their sharp angles and facelessness, the two coiled serpents - Aslaug gripped her glaive and slid the rest of the way down without waiting for the others. She crouched as she slid down, one hand dragging through the rock and dirt, but she was unmindful of the grit buried in her hand.

“ _Bardagi ok sigr!”_ She threw her weapon and it struck, bobbing in the thigh of a Tevinter warrior. He cried out and threw pitiful insults at her instead of taking up his weapon against her. She called ice into her free hand, raised her shield and slammed it into his face. The ice in her hand spread to her wrist, chilling in the rain and wind of the battlefield. He hadn’t recovered from her glaive and staggered at the assault from her shield. She pressed her frosted hand to the gap in his armor, near his throat and squeezed. He tried to wrench away, gagging as the cold stole his breath.

Her shield came up again, and again, and again, knocking him senseless. After she steadied herself, she pressed on the shaft of the glaive with a foot to make him drop to one knee. She removed her hand, yanked her weapon from his wound, and with a yell, buried the point in a slitted opening of his helmet. His cry was cut short and his body fell.

The others had joined in the fighting but Aslaug barely noticed. Another battle, in territory unknown to her, against Tevinters? Hakkon himself had smiled down on her.

The other fighters, presumably the company that belonged to this Iron Bull battled well, fought hard against the Tevinters.

When the last of the enemy fell and the Iron Bull strode up to introduce himself, Aslaug looked up at him and blinked. “How strange, to be looking up instead of down.” He cast a large shadow over her.

The Iron Bull had good humor and said with a toothy grin, “Avvar, right? I’ll just bet.”

The Chargers were good warriors, and Aslaug encouraged Cassandra to accept them into the Inquisition and when Cassandra responded, “I believe the decision was always yours,” it gave Aslaug pause. It was a strange thing to be looked to as a leader when she still stumbled in their customs so poorly.  But her inward pondering could wait; the Iron Bull had promised his Chargers ale and she meant to partake. A good fight warranted a good drink.

However, Cassandra was quick to tell them to meet them in Haven for further instruction and pointed out that they had to find the missing soldiers Harding had mentioned. Aslaug, upon seeing the casks they’d broken open with axes that now spilled rich golden ale, was slightly disheartened. The missing soldiers were too important to delay - but.

Still a waste of ale. While Cassandra took the lead again and had her back turned, Aslaug scooped ale into her hands and drank quickly. Varric did the same and shared a conspiratorial wink with her. Solas looked halfway between exasperated and amused but said nothing.

Solas and she seemed to be the best at climbing and used to the strange, awkward footholds that the Storm Coast offered. Cassandra had started at the front but slowly Aslaug made her way to the front, picking a path that would be easiest for the others to follow. The Frostbacks were dangerous to lowlanders and offered slick steep hills and murky marshes, iced lakes and craggy rock faces that were nearly vertical. She was used to treacherous lands, and it seemed Solas was as well.

“Where have you traveled?” She asked as they both traversed a slope that crumbled into mud and loose rock beneath their feet.

“Many places. Everywhere where a great battle was fought, or where a tragedy took place, or somewhere infused with joy - those are the places I seek out most often. The Fade memories are always richer where emotion has sunk deep into the ground and spirits are likewise drawn to mortal conflict.”

He had a vast array of knowledge and he was regulated to what amounted as a fugitive. She clucked her tongue. “You shouldn’t be an apostate down here.”

“And what else would I be? The Dalish turned me away - they said that what I spoke of was nonsense and had radical ideas that threatened their traditions.” He was apparently bitter about it.

“Had you gone to the Avvar, did a test of the gods and pled your case to a thane and augur, _you_ would have been an augur all Holds would court.” She made the last bit of climb and held a hand out to him.

At the top, while they watched their companions below, Cassandra cursed the weather and Varric sank ankle-deep into a pit of mud, “I’m an elf,” Solas said expressionlessly.

She wasn’t sure if that was meant to prevent giving offense or if he was angry by her statement. “That matters little. You’d be Avvar. Only lowlanders care about such things.”

Solas nodded. “Thank you, although I’m unsure how I’d adapt to Avvar culture.”

Aslaug looked at him out of the corner of her eye. He said it delicately - trying not to offend her again? “If you’re afraid of offending me by saying “no” you needn’t concern yourself. I only meant...that it is a waste. You wouldn’t have been wasted like such amongst the Avvar.” It was difficult to articulate herself across cultures. It was easier to say what was meant and mean it, but they had a strange way of avoiding every tiny offense and every imaginary one.

“It is a shame that mages are treated the way they are. But truly, thank you,” he said sincerely. She doubted she was getting better at speaking lowlander; Solas just seemed more understanding.

Varric finally heaved himself up to the top after Cassandra had gripped the back of his coat and flung him a good foot. He gasped for breath. “Are you two part goat?”

Cassandra’s nostrils were flared and her face red, armor muddied, but she looked no worse for wear. “Maybe you could stand to lose some weight. Not _all_ of what I threw was Bianca.”

Aslaug took up the trail of the missing soldiers again.

They found them. Butchered, beaten, with their throats slit.

Aslaug crouched down beside them. “Solas what do they do with all their dead? Burn them?”

“Yes.” He held a token in his hands. “The attackers are called “The Blades of Hessarian”, so says this missive. It seems this...charm is called Mercy’s Crest - we could confront their leader alone with it and they would have to let us pass.”

Aslaug licked her lips. “They butchered ours.” She pointed angrily at teeth marks. Dogs. “Dishonored the dead.” She frowned. “Even if their leader ordered it, have they no mind of their own?”

“We might ask them, but we will only know if we confront their leader and their leader alone. Unless you mean to kill them all?”  He sounded reproachful.

“No,” she said grudgingly. “What must we do? Kill their leader?”

“It seems so.” And he looked regretful again.

“They will answer for this,” Cassandra promised and she took hold of one of the dead and carried him out of the shack. Aslaug slung one over her shoulder and together they piled the dead next to each other. Solas lit them on fire and Cassandra recited a prayer to the Maker.

Aslaug felt the gods that lingered around them, fortitude and loyalty, and quietly bent to draw three interconnected triangles in the dirt beside the bodies.  

Solas watched curiously.

After they left the dead and Aslaug was designated to bear Mercy’s Crest, Solas asked her quietly, “The symbol you carved near their bodies, what was it?”

Aslaug gave it some thought. Could she put such an intrinsic Avvar meaning, such an important symbol into words when even to her people it transcended the need to have a name? “Each triangle represents something: a Hold, the Lady, and Korth. So the dead know they were found. Their Hold can celebrate their death, the Lady will carry them to her skies, and Korth will keep their bones.”

“Celebrate? You do not mourn?” Solas sounded more curious than anything.

“Mourning is brief. All things die, we celebrate the life that they had, the life they might have had, and the death if it was a good one. Those soldiers fought well in the end.” As she spoke, she followed the deep impressions in the wet grass and mud that led in one direction.

Aslaug hefted the glaive and pointed at the fortress that rose in the distance, where the Blades were.

The leader of the Blades was an idiot. He didn't die well either; a squealing shit that tried to take back his battle-oath when they overwhelmed him. Varric had silenced him with one final bolt.

The Blades were following their thane, but they had still committed a crime upon Havenhold, or the Inquisition. She wasn't sure if they were separate.

Cassandra had declared them for the Inquisition, “You _will_ assist us.”

Aslaug would've traded a brace of rabbits to see any of them argue with that voice. None of them did, and they appeared docile after.

Cassandra directed them to their scouts but they lingered until Aslaug in her white and black war paint pointed in the direction of the scouts with her chin. They went.

“People appear to be looking to you for leadership,” Solas commented quietly. Aslaug grunted and leaned on her glaive, pressed her cheek the flat side of the point at the top.

“Because they think I’m marked by their god. If I was marked by any other god, I’ve no doubt they would chain me,” she grumbled. Her mood was sour partially due to the weather, and the knowledge that as soon as she got back to Havenhold, the advisors would want to hold a council and send her off to do something else.

Solas hummed in agreement, “I fear so.”

She peered over at Solas and noted his crinkled brow, the worry he withheld so well escaping through the cracks. She clapped a companionable hand on his shoulder and shook it as she would have with any of the hunters or warriors or fellow spirit-talkers back in Lurkerhold. His muscles tensed briefly beneath her hand and then relaxed nearly immediately.

“If they want leadership, I’ll rise to it best as I can. Luckily, you are here to advise me.” She smiled. The war paint was sticking and the cracks had smoothed over due to all the rain. “I will need advice I can trust with all these strange lowlander customs.”

Solas inclined his head. “However I am able to aid you, Aslaug Gunhilddotten.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex entry “Avvar views on Tevinters” 
> 
> Considering the fact that once Avvar, along with the rest of the Alamarri tribes, marched to war against Tevinter enslavement, they still have poor relations with Tevinter. The Avvar have a long memory and carry longer grudges - the fact that Tevinter still practices slavery does nothing to endear the Avvar to them. Along with the fact that Tevinter believes the Avvar are children with magic and thoughtless barbarians, it’s no wonder the relationship is so bad. It is worth noting, however, that even Tevinter slavers stay away from the Frostback Basin - there is no slave worth risking the wrath of an Avvar Hold. 
> 
> Codex entry “Avvar and other races”
> 
> The Avvar hold dwarves in fairly high esteem, and some dwarves marry into a Hold or join the Avvar and are accepted. The Avvar do not get along with the Dalish but it may be due to the fact that some of their core beliefs conflict; the Dalish and the Avvar in everyday life are actually fairly similar, however their treatment of spirits is a large difference. The Dalish do not outright condemn spirits, but they are repelled by the fact that the Avvar have so many mages in one Hold and that they invite spirits to a host body when they’re young and learning about their magic. There’s also the aspect of the Avvar holding up spirits as their gods and having them watch over their Hold and giving them offerings. Not mention, of course, the Avvar culture demands raids to southern lands for no other reason than pleasing battle-gods and to test battle readiness. 
> 
> This doesn’t necessarily mean that the Avvar would exclude an elf specifically because they were an elf. If an elf were to join an Avvar Hold, they would need to do a test of the gods and consult the thane and augur and find some way to contribute to the Hold like any other. It would also mean that a Hold would get new blood from another outsider that became an Avvar. They would be counted as one of the Avvar numbers whether they were human, dwarf, or elf. 
> 
>  
> 
> Codex mini entry “clean-hand” 
> 
> An old Norse insult that basically means someone who has no idea how to work, or battle, and is essentially useless. 
> 
> bardagi ok sigr - a very, very bastardized version of a Norse war cry that I've applied to an approximation of Avvar that means "(to) battle and (have) victory"
> 
>  
> 
> Basically I listen to anything Wardruna has done while writing this.
> 
> Chapter titles
> 
> fyrsta - beginning  
> höfn - harbor  
> kunningi - acquaintance  
> goðgá - blasphemy  
> reiði - anger/wrath  
> bjóðja - (to) challenge  
> tala - (to) talk
> 
> Aslaug - from Old Norse essentially means god betrothed woman (remember when I said I thought I was being clever? yes.)


	8. tala twa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically a part of the previous chapter, but I split them since it would've been a bit long. Sorry I haven’t been responding as much to reviews, but I’ve been pulled into RL and trying to map out and research this fic as much as possible. I’ve said previously that I only post a new chapter when I’m about halfway through or finished with its following chapter, but I think I’m going to dial it back to when I have the next chapter finished and the chapter following that one at least fleshed out. I tend to outline the general story, plan out a few chapter sparingly and then detail it out. Not to mention I have to go back at some point and reread what chapters I do have out and edit them. 
> 
> At any rate, you’re all amazing people and thank you for reading and leaving remarks or kudos or just plain enjoying this work. As a further disclaimer, not all of the Avvar codices I put out are completely canon (I’m assuming you’ve all gathered that, but just in case), because there isn’t a lot of fleshed out info. I’ve posted primarily canon info which can be found on the wiki, but the rest are conjectures I’ve drawn up from conversation, poems and stories in game as well as parallels found in old Icelandic lore or history that I believed would have been mirrored within the Avvar community. I’m saying this because I had a msg on tumblr about someone wanting to use my codex entries to make their own fanfic (which go ahead, use it to your heart’s content) but just be aware that not all of the content within the entries are canon based.

The Hinterlands were a welcome sight, although it was still a little too warm for Aslaug, she still couldn't deny that the scent of woodlands and water brought her some cheer. The Fereldan forder beneath her stretched its neck as it walked to catch the passing foliage and eat contentedly. She had yet to name it. She wasn't sure if she would. A name meant attachment. Her last hart, the one that had undoubtedly died at the birth of the Great Wound, had not in truth been hers, but a favorite among the hunters. She had not named it - no one had because everyone rode it. One didn't hold the power or right to name a creature that was not bound to them.

The forder was a good beast, hardy and true in battle, but it cared little about who sat atop it. It wanted to be guided and controlled. Among the Avvar, an animal that was too tame could not think independently. It was seen as a weakness, both of the animal and whoever tamed it.

She tugged at the reins to keep it moving forward and it obliged. She tried to ignore the storm brewing behind her and wished heartily that Varric had elected to ride in the front with her, rather than behind the group. She knew little of what they spoke of. Iron Bull had given her an approximation of what the qun was but claimed he could do little else since it was so complex and he was no priest. They sought betterment for the community, which was what the Avvar did, but men and women had separate roles; a role defined one's gender. A man was a warrior. A teacher or mother-figure (as she understood it) was a woman. If a woman preferred fighting, she was defined as a man. They also both feared and hated magic while deeming it a useful tool.

She had asked him if they used Circles and templars. He'd responded slowly, a little regretfully, “No. It might have been kinder if we did.”

Solas had elected to respond in lieu of Aslaug pressuring Iron Bull for an explanation, “They collar and chain them like animals. Bind them and sew their mouths shut.” His ears were pulled flat in anger as he spoke, burning gaze locked on Iron Bull.

Aslaug felt ill at the image that summoned and nearly spoke her mind, anger like poisonous miasma rising in her throat, but Iron Bull was not to blame for it. He was no thane, no augur, and perhaps didn’t understand - she didn’t believe he didn’t care, not with that tone of voice he used. But perhaps he was forked-tongued about it; she didn’t know him well enough to presume his feelings. She chose to ride ahead instead. The image of the people of Lurkerhold bound like that, of her being bound and chained like that, refused to leave her. Now, she could hear them arguing over philosophy and morals.

“Iron Bull, you are...Ben-Hassrath, correct?”

“Yeah. Ben-Hassrath, secret police basically.”

“You spy on your own people,” Solas’ voice carried a vicious accusation that stilled the air.

“Hey now. It's no different than Orlais. Everyone spies on each other there. Everyone's actions are always accounted for, no matter if it's Orlais or Ferelden.”

“Yes. But they do not consider them criminals for what they think!”

“What you think _is_ what you do,” Iron Bull corrected him firmly.

“No. Even the lowest of peasants has sanctuary in their mind, free of constraint but you take even that.”

“Oh come on!”

Solas sounded more than annoyed, a kind of heated anger that cooled into a grudge with a long memory. Iron Bull was frustrated that his people and culture were under fire, and likely because he felt he wasn't explaining it well enough. Aslaug, like Varric, preferred to not step in it albeit for different reasons. Iron Bull, despite being a part of the qun, was too likeable for her to severely berate him when it seemed obvious he too held distaste for the way they leashed their mages. And, he fought like an Avvar which brought her an unsaid, subtle taste of home.

Searching for signs of the Warden Blackwall, Aslaug spotted a crumpled tent and the smell of moldy leather carried on the wind. She urged her forder forward and it sunk knee deep in the lake, splashing through and biting the heads off of blood lotus stalks as it went. There was a surge of splashing and trotting behind her and she looked over to Varric on his furry war pony. The pony reached out to bite her forder’s flank but she caught it and swatted its nose. His pony, aptly named Nibbler, snorted and tossed his head.

“Hey, Avvar,” Varric used her unimaginative nickname. “The campsite is carta.”

She grunted. The Avvar had a few dealings with the carta. Often, it was only when they wished for passage through the Frostbacks and required a guide. “How can you tell?”

He pointed at the tent. “See that flap? It's got a stitch in it that the carta usually use as a gang tattoo. Most people figure that all dwarves have some family emblem - which is true let me tell you - but only the _carta_ use that one.” The stitch bore two crossed axes and open, grinning jaws. “Where there's carta, that means some shit has gone down,” he mumbled.

He slid down from his pony and Aslaug left her mount behind as well, tense and ready for a fight although Varric seemed unconcerned. She noted the disarray of the camp. Cookware overturned, food rotting beside the one man tent, and she saw large crust of dried blood on the grass and plants near the fire. It hadn’t rained in a long while. The Hinterlands had been going through a drought, as evidenced by the crunch of grass and the way the trees cracked.

Aslaug squatted down near the stain and touched her fingers to it. “Been a few days.” She followed the splatters of blood, heavy droplets that went in two different directions, smears on the side of the tent and cookware. She saw a good amount of it on top of the cast iron pot. “He fought back, but not enough. Whoever made this,” she gestured to the large stain, “wasn’t expecting it.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. The carta likes taking care of things inhouse quietly.” Varric folded his arms. “What concerns me is why the carta is keeping books on red lyrium mining operations and shipment drops.” He held a small, open notebook in his hand. “It means it’s lucrative enough to be good for business and worse, it means someone is buying.” He flipped through it. “Shit. This is bad.” His frown deepened when he looked up at her. “We need to look into this.”

Aslaug nodded and moved to the tent, following the scent of rot. She tugged on a blanket in the tent and a bloated, pale bluish arm rolled out. Varric immediately withheld a dry heave. Aslaug held one end of the blanket and picked the arm up and started backing up from the tent. “Oh for - Avvar, don’t bring it with you.” Varric moved quickly over to the stream, eyes watering from the smell and put his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

“What’s going on?” Iron Bull called out. He and Solas were pulled from their combative argument.

Aslaug ignored Varric’s response and vaguely registered the sound of Iron Bull and Solas pulling up closer on their mounts. The smell of decaying meat made her sick, but there was something wrong with it. Decay didn’t look like this. The flesh of the arm was solid, almost pliable and black veins running through it. Animals hadn’t gnawed on it. The cut was clean, from a sword or a great axe- but the body was gone. Moved, but left the arm behind?

She sniffed at the arm delicately, scrunching her nose and forcing her nausea down. It smelled dead, really dead. But there was a certain metallic scent...she’d smelled it before - dark and foul and beyond the rot of any flesh.

She stood quickly, let out a loud curse and flung the arm from her. “It’s tainted!” She spat. The arm and blanket rolled as one on top of where a campfire had been. The fingers and palm of the arm poked out, pale and afflicted with black veins.

“Shit,” Iron Bull said.

“Are you certain?” Solas stepped down from his mount and approached her cautiously.  He moved to peel back the blanket but Aslaug gripped him by the belt to pull him back. He gave her a harsh, offended look but she kept her hand fisted there.

“It’s fresh. The blood isn’t, but that arm is fresh. Still carries the sickness.” She pulled her lips over her teeth in a grimace. She released his belt with a short apology - but the taint was easy to catch, easy to spread.

Solas peered at what was exposed, at a distance, perhaps wary of Aslaug pulling him back again. “You recognized it easily,” he said.

“We’ve had darkspawn come from the mountains. They travel through the secret dead-thaigs of the dwarves and sometimes come out to eat or take women, if they can,” she said tightly. Darkspawn raids were something no one wished to suffer.

“I thought darkspawn only came to the surface during Blights.” He gave her a questioning look.

“They do. But in greater numbers. If there isn’t a Blight, they still come up in little raiding parties.” She stared down at the arm accusingly.

Varric, now finished with his sickness, wandered back over to look at the arm. A tall shadow fell over all of them. Iron Bull cocked his head. “Clean cut, no animals on it.”

Aslaug scoffed. “Animals won’t touch it. They know it’s sick. Know it will make _them_ sick.”

“So what’s with the bloodstain?” He asked - he sounded less as if he was asking for a rundown of the situation they had stumbled across, and more as if he were testing her. She bristled. What was the point of prodding and testing her? 

“Don’t know. There’s no body, but the blood is - was - red. It doesn’t belong to that.” She pointed at the arm.

“And we don’t know where the rest of that one went, either.” He eyed the arm.

Aslaug cocked a hip. “Ghouls move without their limbs well. They don’t feel pain as much.” If it had its arm lopped off during a fight, she had no trouble imagining that it would have finished the fight and dragged itself off elsewhere.

Iron Bull gave her a long, appraising look. “Had run-ins with them before?”

She gave a short nod. “Darkspawn and their like are nothing new. And you?”

He shook his head. “Heard reports about them, but beyond that, no.”

Varric, meanwhile, shuddered. “We fought them in the Deep Roads. I don’t recommend it. They’re nasty.”

She was quiet and passive while Solas observed the campsite and conferred with Varric over the contents of the notebook. A ghoul shouldn't be this far out in the lowlands. It was wrong. 

Iron Bull made to move away and investigate the campsite himself when she spoke with a forbidding cynicism.

“They come at night. Never when the moon is full or the stars are out; it’s always when the Lady pulls her veils across her and leaves us all night-blind in the world. They crawl out from the mountains like bugs scuttling on the forest floor, pulling open crevices and making their own doors to enter and leave as they please while they spread their disease across our lands. They climb over our Hold walls, or down the mountain over us.” Aslaug absently fingered the climbing axe at her hip, eyes wide and unblinkingly focused on the arm. “They kill our watchers and dogs, any mounts that make noise, they butcher, and no one hears them. And then everyone hears them after the first scream. It’s always a woman, one of them has her over its shoulder and she’s trying to get away but she’s bound or she’s just not moving anymore. The whole Hold goes into a frenzy, and by the time everyone else is awake, the bastards are leaving with bodies of our kin, climbing back into their holes and far from us. When morning breaks and the Hold is angry and calling for blood, you notice who’s missing. Who was taken. Who was killed. But the bodies are gone, deep below.”

Aslaug came back out of her memories and turned to see her three companions staring at her. “Personal knowledge?” Iron Bull asked, not unkindly.

“It’s always personal,” she returned.

“They take your people?” Solas spoke up softly. She met his gaze.

“They take women to defile and make them into mothers. The men, they kill so they can eat. Children...I don’t know what they do to the children.” She shifted her weight, uneasy with the focus on her so keenly.

“Did...was someone you knew taken?” Solas looked gentle, understanding in his questioning and there was a strange, inquisitive light to him. Aslaug was stricken for a moment by its presence.

“In every Hold in the Frostbacks, every Avvar had someone they knew taken,” she said finally. “We need to find out what a ghoul is doing so far in the lowlands.”

Solas was quiet for a moment and seemed to be looking into her. She wasn't sure if he was searching for something, or if he was examining something he'd already seen. “Agreed. It is disturbing to find one so far out on the surface during a time when the Blight is not active.”

Varric flapped the little notebook in his hand. “I need to get this to Nightingale and have her people look into this. I have a few contacts I need to get a hold of when we get back to Haven.”

“After we find the Warden,” Aslaug corrected. “If we go back without him, Josephine will make that sad face at me.” She scowled a little when Varric chuckled and teased her, but was grateful that the mood lifted somewhat.

Solas burned the arm and the tent that had contained it in an enclosed barrier to prevent it from spreading and used some magic Aslaug had never seen before to banish the ashes. After the burning, the group climbed on to their mounts and urged them forward to follow the small trail to a nearby dock that ended at a cabin.

The body of a farm hand was splayed out beneath the base of a sapling near the dock, arrows dotting his chest.

Aslaug opened her mouth to speak to the group loudly, over the renewed grumbling between Solas and Iron Bull until a clang of steel caught her attention. She perked up and turned her forder in the direction. Farmers wielding pickaxes and hatchets were facing off what Aslaug recognized as bandits from their numerous encounters. A bulky man in heavy armor hefted a shield that bore the emblem of the Grey Wardens and slammed it into the side of a bandit who had pinned one of the farmers.

“The Warden!” She bellowed and urged the forder into a charge. Varric whistled and a bolt buried itself in the throat of one of the bandits, another found himself lit on fire. With her knees, she steered the forder to bodily slam into a bandit, grabbing another by the back of his collar and dragging him behind her horse. He yelled and then choked as he lost his breath. With a vicious twist of her wrist, she called down an ice glyph beneath the feet of the bandits that exploded upon contact and sent several of them howling. Fire licked at their heels and the farmers, now with the upper hand, pushed back with vigor.

Iron Bull swung his massive warhammer and sent the bandit chieftain flying into a tree with a crack like a dry twig snapping underfoot.

Aslaug let go of the struggling bandit and he crumpled to his knees, swaying to stand but an arrow caught him in his back, a mark to his heart, and he slumped lifelessly. She wheeled her excited forder and slid from it, pressing on its muzzle, murmuring to the side of its neck where it could see her.

Its eye rolled to watch her, nostrils flaring. She breathed on its nose, patting and murmuring to it in the language of the mountain and sky. It calmed although its hide shined with sweat. She briefly checked its chest and legs, searching for a sign that its charge into the thick of the skirmish had wounded it.

The Warden approached them warily after he sent his gawking farmers on their way with a stern look and sterner words. He swept his helmet off with little flourish. Iron Bull came up beside Aslaug and Solas took his usual place behind her elbow. Varric greeted him with a charming smile, “Well it’s always nice to see Wardens walking around casually. Really gives the whole ‘world-ending’ some solid credibility.”

“I’d thank you for your assistance, but who the hell are you people?” He stood tall before them.

Aslaug let her hands slip from her mount. “The Inquisition has questions, Warden Blackwall.”

“Right...that sounds ominous.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“I knew having you as the figurehead was obviously the friendliest choice.” Varric chuckled from afar.

Aslaug gave a small, crooked grin. “Peace Warden, your kind are vanishing, and I’ve been tasked with the investigation.”

He blinked in surprise. “Vanishing? No - but if there’s no Blight, then we disperse, right? Recruitment is low, so the Wardens just scour for darkspawn, or helping people unless duty calls.”

She pursed her lips. “What duty would have caused all the Wardens to leave their forts and posts?” She recalled the information Sister Leliana had relayed to her.

Blackwall crossed his arms. “Only a Blight, that I can think of.” He paused, brow scrunched in thought. “If the Wardens are disappearing, you can’t possibly think they caused the Divine’s death?” He sounded nearly mortally offended.

Aslaug shrugged. “We do not even know what caused the explosion, nevermind who or how. But the Wardens are gone. Whether it is connected or not, I cannot say. But it doesn’t sound good.”

He stroked his beard and looked away for a moment. “If what you say is true, then I’d be honored to help, Inquisition. I can’t say where my brothers may have gone, but I’d like to help find them.”

Wordlessly, Aslaug strode forward and extended her right arm with her palm open. Blackwall grabbed her forearm, lower than was usual, but Aslaug shook it nonetheless with a smile. He had a good, strong grip. “Welcome to the Inquisition, Warden.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex entry “Avvar & darkspawn” 
> 
> The Avvar are not unknown to darkspawn raids. With their close relationship to the Frostbacks and the undeniable truth of being close to thaigs, they do suffer the odd surface raids darkspawn enact. Often, these raids end tragically with women, men and children of the Hold taken or killed during the attack. Perhaps especially because of their close relationship to the dwarves below the surface, the Avvar are very aware of darkspawn throughout their lives even without the threat of a Blight looming overhead.


	9. ráð

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ráð - authority

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we’ve got the bulk of the introductions out of the way. Thanks for sticking with me on it folks. I know character introductions can be difficult to read without glazing over, especially taking into account that a lot of this is setting up fairly similarly to the way the game plays out, but due to Aslaug’s foreign nature, I felt it necessary. And it is a Solasmance I promise you it is in your future, but you know, he plays the long game and I'm gearing towards a solid sense of camaraderie and respect between them before it moves forward. 
> 
> So, real quick, I had an ask about what Aslaug looked like. Basically, I imagined she'd look similar to Etain from “Centurion” but with a bit more muscle mass. I more or less left her physical description up in the air because while I had a specific build in mind, I hadn't put much thought into what she actually looked like in detail.

Varric and Sister Leliana’s people were still tracking the carta supply line in the Hinterlands, and the advisors had previously forbidden her from making contact with the mages for a time. Upon her return to the Hinterlands, Aslaug considered their advice but was anxious about dragging the fighting on and closing the Lady’s Great Wound. The fighting would endanger the most vulnerable of the lands, hidden from sight, and she had little doubt that the longer she allowed the Inquisition to ignore the Lady’s wound, the more furious She would be. The Lady still had to be the first priority when possible.

The Avvar woman made her decision after five nights in the Hinterlands of helping and saving and hunting, upon witnessing the bird flocks in the sky. Black clouds of birds circled and spiraled aimlessly but made for the north when it wasn’t in season for them to do so. More and more birds fled. Not only in the Hinterlands but the hawks and songbirds near Havenhold had left far earlier. It worried her that the Hinterlands were similarly affected.

She had informed the group they would be making for Redcliffe to meet with the mages. Cassandra stayed behind to inform the advisors in person and she had been in agreement with Aslaug about approaching the mages as quickly as possible. Varric was still chasing leads and contacts about the carta and red lyrium and had made for Havenhold immediately after finding the Warden. The newest addition to their company was investigating clues about the ghoul arm found at the abandoned carta campsite as well as the missing Wardens.

The group that rode steadily on toward Redcliffe numbered only at five, and Aslaug had hopes that none of them would kill each other before reaching the village. Not that they fed her hope any, of course. They were each enjoyable company in their ways, but she found that the making of this particular group fed fat to the fire and she wished she had asked Varric to stay. He had a way of charming people and making light of any situation, a talent she had never before sought in a person until this mess. And he had fascinating tales about the lowlands as well as the one called Hawke, who was at the heart of the rebellion of the mages. Aslaug had yet to tire of Hawke’s tales.

She missed the skald, moreso when Solas told tales because his were never funny or lighthearted. He was a sad man. Sadder and grimmer than she had realized, even if he was kind. She wondered who he had lost.

It was worse now with the company they traveled with. Sera hated magic and disliked hearing stories about the Elvhen empire that Solas had tried to speak with her about. Iron Bull was reluctant of all things magic although their primary point of contention was still the qun. Vivienne just believed all of them to be unwashed and uncouth. 

The tension rubbed everyone the wrong way, although Aslaug tried to keep them apart and threw herself into conversation that would lead them away from whatever bone they were snapping at. Her actions were less than subtle, but they worked. Mostly she just asked questions. She was of no mind to take criticism directed at the Avvar when she endured it in the cities and towns and even within Havenhold itself so she often refrained from speaking about her own culture to avoid further sourness.

They had chased bandits from the crumbling tower known as Lornan’s Exile the previous day and found little treasures. Aslaug had found a bottle of wine that Solas had expressed some interest in. She’d given it to him - he didn’t drink the heavier ales and meads she drank, preferring lighter wines that had fragrances like flowers. She’d tried some of his wine before. She wouldn’t do so again.

After they’d killed the corrupted gods that sprang forth from a tear near Lornan’s Exile, they’d settled down to camp to make for Redcliffe the next morning.

At some point, Sera had painted what looked like an impossibly curved cock and exaggerated balls using Aslaug’s war paint on the side of Vivienne’s personal mount that she’d brought from Orlais. She’d also written something in different paint on Solas’s horse. He’d translated the writing to Aslaug with distaste and with his nose wrinkled and upper lip curled in disdain, “It says ‘old elfy shite, blah, blah, blah’.”

Aslaug believed the prank played on Solas wasn’t inspired and had more to do with the younger elf’s frustration at her elder lecturing her. She had enjoyed the lewd drawing on Vivienne’s horse since it was positioned at the horse’s side, pointing up at where she would be seated. Although Aslaug was less than thrilled about having to scrape out some of her muddied paint mixtures because they smelled of horse.

She thought that Sera thought she was being clever and meant to give her a fright when she woke to find a large snake resting near her contentedly. Solas had already received biting lizards on the first day out and Vivienne had gotten the nasty surprise of rashvine leaves in her decorative, horned headpiece later that same day. So far of the group, only Iron Bull remained untouched.

Aslaug, upon seeing the snake and hearing the poorly disguised giggles of Sera in the early hours, felt relatively lucky.

She slipped a thin, nearly translucent, pair of blue trousers on and wrapped her torso quickly in matching chest bands. The snake twisted in her furs.

She’d learned that lowlanders were squeamish about clothes when she’d been caught in the middle of her morning grooming once early on in her travels with them. She’d been bare from the waist up, perfectly acceptable within Avvar reasoning, but apparently incredibly scandalous to lowlanders.

Cassandra had been the one to catch her, flushed from cheek to neck, she’d held a hand up as if to ward the image of Aslaug away. “Herald! You are being indecent!” She’d yelled.

Aslaug had laughed, but listened to the other woman and tucked herself away in her bands. It was as if she’d never seen breasts before. “You are lucky I am the one who found you and not Varric or Solas, or Maker forbid, one our scouts!” Cassandra had continued, hand still held up while Aslaug wrapped herself.

“Because lowlanders like to pretend tits don’t exist?” Aslaug had teased. Cassandra had sputtered.

She exited the one man tent, still a little bleary eyed, and held the snake behind its head.

Sera saw her with the snake and bit her lip, eyebrows raised high while she tried to stifle her giggling. Aslaug shuffled over to her pack and dug out her knife before squatting near the little fire. A cast iron pot bubbled with oatmeal.

The giggles died immediately when she killed it with a twist of its head, split it down its middle and pulled out its digestive tract to coil its long body around a branch that had been whittled into a makeshift spit to roast it.

Sera, amid her gagging, refused to finish eating. Vivienne turned a delicately formed nose up at her once the scent of flesh cooking reached her and she saw what it was. Solas bore a look of blank acceptance that Aslaug found endlessly entertaining.

Iron Bull accepted the chunk of meat she’d carved from the serpent’s body.

“Little chewy for my taste. But not bad. Kind of tastes like rabbit,” he remarked around the roasted meat.

Aslaug shaved off the scales with a dull, curved knife and cut more pieces from the snake, eating contentedly in front of Sera. She kicked dirt over the fire to smother it.

Sera’s disgusted face was still twisted but remained fixed on her. “Ugh - didn’t know you’d eat it! You’re s’posed to scream or something.”

Aslaug sliced off another piece and offered it to Iron Bull before taking off another chunk for herself. “We eat whatever we can when we can find it.” She smiled at Sera after she swallowed. “You should see what else we’ll eat.”

Sera pushed her small bowl of oatmeal away with a noise. “I’m done. Done, done, done, not going to watch you eat whatever else.”

Aslaug watched her move over to their mounts. “You know, you’re kind of a shit, boss,” Iron Bull noted casually as he ate.

Aslaug huffed out a short laugh. “She is too, isn’t she?”

He grinned. “You could pull rank, order her stop.”

“That would be infinitely more appropriate, darling.” Vivienne raised a crafted brow at her from across the banked campfire.

She made a noise of disagreement and bent forward. She stabbed the skewer with the snake nearly scraped clean of any meat into the ground beside her. She unraveled her sleeping braids and used a bone-tooth comb to start untangling her dark hair. “No sense. It’s just a game, not an offense. I’m fine with playing so long as it stays a game.” She spoke to the ground, hands moving over the tiny braids she’d tied days earlier.

She hadn’t had the opportunity to wash in two days, and she could smell unwashed oil and skin - not yet an odor but it wouldn’t be long. They all needed to find a place to wash. Avvar didn’t mind dirt and grit and blood and the general filthiness of the day, but they were a clean people. The scent of an unwashed person could be stronger than the game they tracked, carried easily on the wind or might let an enemy know how close one was. Hair left uncared for would be unattractive and tangle, teeth had to be kept strong and clean, and cleanliness kept pests and vermin at bay.

Aslaug had been more than a little horrified to discover that some lowlanders bathed once a month and it was considered tolerable. When Josephine had relayed such information to her when Aslaug had questioned where the public baths were, she was informed that most people took baths at their own leisure and only those with befitting rank were granted a tub of their own. Upon further questioning, Aslaug found most of the lowlanders from the area only used soap made from animal fat with lavender or sweet smelling things and never used a scraping tool to rid themselves of old skin. At the very least, she had hoped they paid proper attention to hair or other grooming habits or teeth cleaning. The answer was about half of half.

Lowlanders were foul.

She was relieved that most of the company she traveled with was agreeable on her terms of cleanliness. Even Sera, who ran around like a befouled child at times and hated the chewing sticks Aslaug forced on her, hated remaining covered in muck.

Aslaug used the sharp pick of the comb to untangle a knotted braid and combed the rest out, using water and pounded mash of skinned aloe vera to thread through her hair before she rebraided it for the day. She tied one braid on either side of her temples, tightly looping them together and made the large braid on the back of her skull that would hang down her back beneath the two smaller braids.

Iron Bull took the bowls of the group to wash and probably to wander over and harass Sera.

“My dear, while your...unassuming clothing is rather disappointing since you are the holy symbol of the Inquisition, I must say that your braids are rather striking,” Vivienne commented, lounging on a tall, flat rock in her tight outfit that granted her mobility and was still completely gaudy. She nibbled on a biscuit Aslaug never remembered being available to them through Inquisition supplies.

Aslaug tied off her final braid with a leather wrap and reached over for her smaller pouches containing her war paint mixtures. She was certain Vivienne had just both insulted her and complimented her, judging from Solas’s small frown and narrow eyes directed at the other mage. “Thank you,” she said, tone slightly dry.

She wet her fingers before touching her mixtures. She made a band of white across her eyes, blackened her forehead, and pressed black to her bottom lip with her thumb.

Vivienne watched her intently. “Although your consistent use of war paint is charmingly loyal to your culture, my dear, mightn’t you consider foregoing it, now that you represent an organization so far removed from Avvar customs?”

Aslaug cocked her head as if in thought, “No.” She pulled her day clothes out of her pack. She’d need to change behind the rocks so she didn’t set off their delicate sensibilities.

Vivienne’s answering look was less than amused. “It would be best if you consider your appearance since you are the figurehead of the Inquisition and the Herald of Andraste.”

“I’m not doing this because I’m part of the Inquisition or because people call me a herald of their prophetess. My people paint themselves before battle and war to honor our gods and to show our enemies what they face. I was, and am, Avvar before I was ever a part of the Inquisition or before anyone called me ‘herald’.” Aslaug began methodically packing her bag full of her bedroll, her mixtures, and pouches. “And if I know there are enemies, I will be painted to meet them.”

Vivienne’s look was dark and cool. “I see.”

  
...

 

Vivienne kept pace with Iron Bull who was cowed by her in the strangest of ways, like an obedient child to an overbearing mother. She had refused to ride near Sera after the rashvine incident, and Solas and Vivienne despised each other worse than warring dwarven families.

Aslaug rode between Sera and Solas at the front while the remaining two of their group trailed behind.

They ranged northward, over hills and rocks, and Aslaug had left her outer and inner furs off and bundled them with her bedroll on the rump of her horse.

“I was thinking Sera. Most elves have some ability with magic and those that do not are at least more sensitive to it than any other race. It is possible to determine whether you have dormant arcane abilities.”

“Stop it,” the young elven woman warned. “I have to sleep at night.”

“Ah, yes! Sleeping would be a perfect scenario to explore what abilities you might have. The Fade would provide opportunities that would be otherwise closed to you. I could help, if you so wished. I could introduce you to spirits,” Solas offered from the other side of Aslaug. The Avvar woman squinted over at him. There was something in his voice. Some kind of wry irony.

She was unable to stop the smile that snuck its way on her mouth.

Sera, on the other hand, looked slightly panicked. Aslaug hoped she wouldn’t spur her mount into running over the hills. Sera was poor at riding. “Right, you’re messing with me on purpose aren’t you?”

Solas’s tone changed, falsely contrite and sincere, “Now why would I do that? It is not as though I know who left lizards in my bedroll.”

“Oh,” Sera giggled shamelessly. “Okay. Fair’s fair, yeah? That was a good one.”

Aslaug snorted to hide her laughter. “Something particularly amusing, herald?” Solas asked after Sera pulled back to annoy Vivienne - everyone could hear the mage’s noise of disgust.

“You two. You act your ages,” she said with a wide smile over him.

Solas looked unimpressed. “I’m glad you find amusement in watching your companions bicker.”

“You liked it when I ate that snake she left me,” she pointed out. “And, it just - the two of you, it reminds me of a cocky runt with a patient, frustrated elder. Our augur and the master of the hunt acted like that when the hunt master was a whelp.” She fumbled with her words to get her meaning across, “It’s familiar, is all. Even here. With you two.”

He nodded slowly. “I see. Familiarity can be comforting.”

“Yes. I’m more homesick than I like letting on, but after this...I don’t know if Lurkerhold will let me back. My loyalty was proven to be with Havenhold, with the Inquisition. So, hm, it’s nice to see home here, with me,” she said in earnest.

Solas looked at her sadly. “I understand. Comfort in any amount is desired.”

She smirked a little at him, wanting him to shed his sadness, because she wished no one to have any on her behalf even if the gloom settled over her like a cloud. She steered her mount close to his to slap his bicep. He looked startled at the movement. “The company helps. Gods above and around know I’d lose my sanity with only lowlanders around me.”

Her implication wasn’t lost on him. He blinked. “Am I not a lowlander to you, Aslaug?” He sounded surprised, perhaps even wary.

“You live in the lowlands and you know them. But no. I don’t think you’re a lowlander.” She eyed him for a tense moment, sensing the change in the air and weighed her next words cautiously. “I don’t know what else you are, but you’re not that,” she decided.

Solas kept his silence but didn’t move his mount from hers, and they rode companionably close to each other. “Will you not ask what else I am?” He questioned her finally. His tone was blank, as was his expression.

Aslaug hummed in her throat. “I could, and maybe you’d tell me, maybe you wouldn’t. Should it matter to me, Solas of the north?”

His answering laugh was brief and harsh. “I believe that is for you to decide.”

She paused. “Have I offended you?” She still couldn’t tell with these people. They pussyfooted around everything.

“No - no, I was just.” He sighed, “Forgive me. I am still used to being...thought of as mad, or foolish, or being regarded as a dangerous outcast.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course you’re dangerous. I’ve seen you fight and that mind of yours is sharper than any blade I’ve seen. But that’s my point. That was what I meant. You may come from the lowlands, but you’re not them. You’re more like me. I may be a human woman, but would you mistake me for a Fereldan woman or a Circle mage?”

He tilted his head to sweep a glance over her; the heavy fur behind her and the leather breeches and boots she wore, the war paint on her face and throat, the vest and its cords that covered her chest but allowed her navel to be exposed. “No. I can say that with certainty.”

She gave a nod of confirmation. “And I couldn’t mistake you for a Dalish or a city elf. We’re too different for any of that.”

He considered her for a moment before nodding slightly to himself. His eyes turned from her and focused on their path. “So we are.”

They found a skull.

It glowed and was set on a pillar of stone and the group gathered around to stare at it. Aslaug slid from her mount and prodded at it with a tendril of controlled magic. It wasn’t defensive or offensive, but it responded positively to her magic, and the crystals in the eye holes gleamed.

“Ugh, more creepy magic shite,” Sera grumbled a good distance from the skull.

Iron Bull eyed it. “Yeah. I’m not touching that.”

“It is an unknown magic, herald. It would be best if you left it and allowed someone with more knowledge about arcane artifacts to inspect it.” Vivienne and Solas appeared at her elbows. “If I may, my dear.”

“It’s an eye for something,” Aslaug muttered. She prodded at it again, and again, it glowed.

“Interesting,” Solas commented and he traced the tip of his finger along the dome of the skull. “You have something similar among your people, Aslaug?”

“No, but it feels - it feels like... It feels like the god of the lost at Lurkerhold. But there’s no god here.” She was stumped and looked to Solas for an answer. “What is it meant to look for?”

He smiled approvingly and subtly moved around Vivienne to the skull. “Shall we find out?”

“Solas, dear, I think it best if you let me examine it. I am the only one among us that has had proper training with dangerous magical items, as well as the benefit of a Circle-mandated education.” Vivienne insisted.

“Ah yes, forgive me, Madame Vivienne. I am a simple wandering apostate that has no knowledge of the arcane or is aware of its dangers. My lack of education and foresight is indeed in need of your intervention, as it was particularly evident in the study of the Breach and Aslaug’s marked hand.” Solas was still prodding at the artifact even though he and Vivienne were locked in an argument. “But, of course, Circle-mandated education isn't informative of such things beyond ‘do not touch, may be dangerous’. Vague and senseless warnings without investigation remain the same, no matter how prettily you may word them.”

Aslaug felt uncomfortable being caught between them and dropped her face to her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. This was why she kept them apart.

“Ohhh, this is getting good. Come here Sera, you’re missing it!” Iron Bull hissed from a distance.

“Screw that. Angry mages with a creepy glowy skull - not going anywhere near that.”

“Solas, it may not have occurred to you since you wander the Fade and are perfectly amicable to demons, but this is dangerous and neither of you have the appropriate training to handle such an item.” Vivienne’s response was ice cold.

“And you are assuming you do? My experience in handling relics comes from prior knowledge as well as what I have found in the Fade, and speaking with spirits on such matters. You may see them as the same thing, but they are two sides of a coin, Enchanter,” Solas’s rebuttal was spat. “And I would ask you to remember that Aslaug has a comprehension of magic beyond what the Circle may teach you.”

“I assume that the ones who eagerly respond to your questions are demons, and the herald’s knowledge of the arcane comes from...coarser means. I realize that to apostates and those trained beyond a Circle - if indeed anyone did train you - they are not the same but I assure you that they are.” Vivienne regarded Aslaug for a brief moment. “Herald, would you mind ordering the apostate back so I may investigate the relic properly before we use it and possibly unleash some terrible monstrosity?”

Solas stiffened beside Aslaug. His ears went nearly flat to his skull and his head jerked back with an abrupt snap of movement.

“Is that a thing? Unleashing some terrible whatever?” Sera sounded alarmed.

“It’s a magic skull in the middle of nowhere. Of course it is.” Iron Bull’s sufferance to the whole situation was clear.

Aslaug felt anger curdle in her on behalf of Solas, who was the augur of Havenhold in all but name and deserved such recognition and respect. Beyond that, she recognized that Vivienne had insulted her as she had been wont to do since they met although she’d let it slide until now. She was not a beast to be led about by a rope with burdens laden upon her back.

She scowled. “I can’t order Solas to do anything. He isn’t my servant. He’s my advisor and the one who kept me from death. He understands the gods as much or more than the augur who taught me in Lurkerhold.” She straightened beside the tall woman. “I trust him. If you don’t, that’s fine. But if you claim to be a part of the Inquisition and call me a herald of your prophetess, then you trust me.”

Vivienne’s mouth pursed. “I would advise you to place your trust in people more suitable.”

“I do.” Aslaug kept eye contact. “He was the only one patient enough to teach me anything about the lowlands. And he didn’t mistake my inability to read your people’s words as stupidity. He’s my friend, and I’d ask you not to forget that we are all equals here.”

The strain in the air broke after a moment. “Of course, herald. My mistake. Solas dear, I’m curious how you mean to test it.” Her pleasant voice was edged with a knife.

Solas activated it with a brief flare of magic and looked through it. “It’s illuminating objects in the distance. Hm. A puzzle or a scavenger hunt?”

“What do you see?” Aslaug asked.

“Shards of some sort. If there’s time…” He looked over at her.

“We might as well. It’s on the way to the village.” She stepped out of the way and let Vivienne look through it and poke at it.

“Thank you,” Solas whispered beneath his breath.

She gave him a little smile and whispered back just as quietly, “I told you. The lowlanders will take all of our sanity.”

He chuckled and she was delighted that he snorted when he did. “So you did. Well done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex entry “Avvar & hygiene” (taken partially from viking hygiene regimens) (non-canon)
> 
> Despite outside preconceived beliefs that the Avvar are “unwashed barbarians”, they are extremely fastidious in their hygiene. They carry tools for grooming such as combs and tweezers for hair, and are rarely without dental hygiene even on the road. Typically, a hygiene “pack” will consist of: a toothed comb often made from an animal bone, a short, sharp knife for body hair or facial hair care, and a toothbrush made from druffalo bristles with a wooden handle. They carry a paste for their teeth that is often made from crushed mint and elfroot, and they used oil on their skin to keep it well lubricated and from cracking due to the constant extreme temperature they’re in. They use a scraping tool to remove excess oil and dead skin, although they follow up with a regiment of soap, oil, as well as hair care that often consists of elfroot, aloe vera, and leftover water from washing grain. Whereas commoners of Fereldan and Orlais, who bathe anywhere from once a week to once a month, the Avvar bathe two to three times a week. 
> 
> Codex entry “Avvar diets” (taken from DA wiki, filled a little more) (canon, non-canon)
> 
> The Avvar are a people who live and adapt to one of the harshest environments in Thedas, and as such, have learned that wasting anything is a sure way to starve. They have been known to consume nugs, bogfishers, and even wyverns after they remove their poison sac. Their diets are supplemented heavily with fish whenever possible as well as grain they trade for, various starches and wild rice that grows in the lower valleys of the Frostback basin. They’ve been noted to eat roots, whatever vegetables they can as well as the odd fruit they may find in their climate. 
> 
> Codex entry “Avvar war paint” (non-canon)
> 
> Avvar war paint varies from each Hold, and the meanings of specific designs of it remain obscure to outsiders, but overall, it is done to honor the heraldry of a particular god or even the Hold. Avvar men and women who have earned a legend-mark will often craft a design that will be unique to them. War paint is made of a mixture of clay, natural dye from plants, and sometimes powdered bone, ash, or charcoal.


	10. gaumr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gaumr - attention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a confession. Aslaug is difficult for me to write at times since she’s different from my own personality as well as the character types I create for DA:I; she’s much more brash and bold but I’m trying to balance her simplistic directness and no nonsense without forsaking her intelligence. I really don’t want her to come across as an unreasonable brute, but I am trying to stick with the character I envision would have grown up among the Avvar with limited outside interaction. Whether or not I'm succeeding is an entirely different story. 
> 
> And as far as Redcliffe goes, in game I always met with the mages very, very early on and did the main quest for it asap, because I'd imagine the Inquisition would be on somewhat of a time crunch regarding that in the beginning. 
> 
> Below are a few phrases of an approximation of Avvar/Alamarri (courtesy of fenxshiral) as well as old Norse to fill in some gaps, some very bastardized old Norse (I’m sorry).
> 
> “Ik jom ðu dauþ, Avvar.” (I am your death, Avvar.)  
> “Koma frost, til dalr, drepa de hiti.” (Come frost, to the valley, kill the flame.)

The terror god screamed in her face, and with a heavy claw, gripped her by her vest and lifted her from her feet and flung her. Aslaug shouted in surprise, losing her glaive in the process and landed hard on her shield. Her breath knocked from her, she wheezed and forced herself to her roll to her knees, then feet, staggering from the rush to her head that subsequently followed.

Iron Bull called out a loud taunt and stepped in front of her when the terror god advanced. He swung his warhammer and caught it at its knobbly knees. It fell to the ground with a wail that was cut abruptly short when the qunari warrior let the heavy face of the warhammer meet its head.

“Up and at ‘em, boss!” He grinned down at her with sharp teeth. Aslaug wheezed out unevenly and forced her body to obey her needs. “There we go.” He slapped a heavy hand against her shoulder that nearly made her lurch forward. He met the black claws of a mighty shade and called to another one that had been harassing Sera. Arrows flew rapidly from her fingers finding an enormous shade and making a pincushion out of it. Vivienne and Solas commanded elements of lightning and fire in equal measure with an alien grace to both of their movements that Aslaug would have wondered at had her situation not worsened.

A god of wrath bubbled from the ground in front of Aslaug, clawing its way to the surface, made of molten, absolute purpose. A roar of rage erupted from it and it grew thrice in size, gliding towards Aslaug and she pulled back immediately from the immense amount of heat that poured from it. It smelled of wood ash after a forest burned to black nothingness without even the scent of death in the air, just simply the absence of life.

The complete opposite against the cold comfort of winter and the harsh ragged breath of winter, the enraged god forced her back from it several more steps.

“I feel you as you feel me, Avvar. I know the fury that has made its home in your belly, burning you from within.” Aslaug raised her shield and formed a barrier as she searched for her glaive, but the rage god broke through it, melting it as spring teethed at the edges of winter. It laughed at her with a gaping, toothless maw brandishing only fire and the promise that would scorch her bones. “ _Ik jom ðu dauþ, Avvar_.”

It unleashed a stream of liquid fire that caught Aslaug’s upper arm and she bit back a yell of pain, cowering behind her shield, she forced ice to clot her wound and freeze the burn that flared on her. The ice formed ridges along her arm and she felt her temperature drop, drawing on her connection to the land of dreams, she breathed out and felt her lips cool with it. Beneath her, the trampled grass slicked with the blood of previous victims crystallized with hoarfrost and cracked beneath her sure steps. The god of rage roared and forced more of its fire to grasp her, but the chill was too great and it began to retreat slowly.

The hoarfrost followed her every footstep and preceded her until it touched the edges of the fiery god. The god flared again in panic and Aslaug pressed her advantage, she caught her lip between her teeth and let the excitement rush through her. A violently corrupted god, twisted beyond any she could recognize like any of the others she’d fought since the Great Wound and it fought back so hard.

“ _Koma frost, til dalr_ _,_ _drepa_ _de_ _hiti_ ,” she chanted under her breath, legs quaking as she pushed it back, back, back. “ _Koma frost,_ _koma_ _frost_.” The hoarfrost changed to spikes as tall as her hip and caged the god. It roared in defiance. “ _Drepa_. _Drepa_.  _Drepa _de_ _hiti__ ,” she rallied, louder and louder until the cage curled over it and crushed it. The god died with a sputter like an open flame being drowned in a sudden rain.

The god-mark snapped at her hand like an errant dog and she raised her hand, shield still strapped to her forearm and caught at the threads of the tear in the sky. She pulled it down with a hooking movement and it shut.

She gasped out a breath and a nearly manic grin forced itself on her face. She met Iron Bull’s gaze and he chuckled at her. “Feelin’ good?” He raised his brows.

“I nearly lost an arm to that god,” she said breathlessly. Her heartbeat used her rib bones as a drum, nostrils flared with the scent of doused fire and burnt flesh. Her wound pulsed with her heartbeat, but the pain was distant thing that was kept at bay only through the ice she had summoned to rest on her arm.

Such a fight! Such a glorious, defiant fight with a powerful god. Battle-worthiness was easy to come by down in the lowlands, and even though they still remained on the fringes of the waking world and the land of dreams, she felt the press of battle-gods come closer. She’d still need to prove her worth, so lost in these lowlands where the gods here only followed those who prayed to a burnt woman and a silent, jealous god, but it was a worthy quest.

Once the mages joined the Inquisition, she would show them how to prove their worth to the gods. Not just battle, but in kindness and patience and wisdom. They were not to be feared. She understood now that they didn’t know better. She would guide them as best as she could. She was no augur, but Solas was here, and she didn’t doubt for a moment about gaining his assistance.

She was lost in thought while she traced the blackened edges of skin she’d frozen and hissed when it cracked. Iron Bull grunted in sympathy. “I think I’ve got a salve for that," he offered.

She was about to nod in acceptance when Solas was suddenly there, inspecting it with a critical eye. “You shouldn’t simply freeze something that pains you so you can continue to fight,” he scolded in a tight voice and a greenish glow lit at his fingertips. He ran his fingers over the meat of her shoulder and bicep. “You could do permanent damage to your muscle tissue.”

“Oh thank the Maker, it’s over! Open the gates!” The soldier jogged to the entrance of the black gate and the soldiers on the other side worked at its crank. The gate swung open slowly.

Sera peered over Aslaug’s other shoulder to eyeball her wound. “Eugh. It’s all black and crackly - looks like burnt pork.” She sniffed. “Doesn’t smell like it, though.” She leaned on Aslaug’s glaive. The archer must have found it and brought it to her. She looked less interested in Solas healing her wound and more fascinated with the way the wound looked. Even Vivienne was looking on in some interest. “How much does it hurt?”

Aslaug watched Solas work, the black flesh cracked off, peeling away like layers of wrappings, and red muscle showed through; bloody and fresh and he pressed more of his magic to her. Threads of it wound deep into her muscle, pulled new skin to life and gently scraped off what she lost. The tang of his magic was familiar, yet not. Like a memory from her young childhood that she only had vague impressions of but couldn’t remember in earnest.

“Have you ever burnt your hand cooking?” She asked, enraptured with the healing process. It was different from any she’d ever experienced. Practiced, but vastly different.

“A bit. S’it like that?”

“Except you held to it long enough that your flesh came away.” With Aslaug’s new skin came itchiness and a rawness that felt similar to windburn out in the salted air of the sea.

Sera made a noncommittal noise. “Looks gross.” Aslaug plucked a blackened scrap of what used to be her skin from her shoulder and flicked it at Sera. She squealed with a short laugh and yanked away from Aslaug.

The skin pulled taut where it healed over, bright pink like a fresh scar, thin and soft and just slightly painful. Solas’s magic pulled away and Aslaug mourned its loss because she felt the heat of the wound and its newness come through fully. He eyed it critically. “I would advise taking Iron Bull’s offer of a salve. It will scar, otherwise.”

“Be a pretty neat scar, though.” Iron Bull squinted at her shoulder.

Aslaug considered it, “It looks like a fish.”

Iron Bull fell silent for a moment. “Oh yeah, a bit.” He scratched his chin with one hand and in the other, held out a tiny pot of what she presumed to be a salve. “If it looked like a dragon would you have kept it?”

“Yes,” she said emphatically. A scar from a god of wrath in the shape of a dragon? Whatever man would steal her in the future would not only have a woman well oiled in battle, but it would likely be a favorite spot to tease for him.

Solas eased his hands away and sighed, shaking his head. “Come, we should meet with the Grand Enchanter,” he urged.

Aslaug took her glaive from Sera with an appreciative nod and swung it on her back, sliding it in its straps with practiced ease. The group gathered to move forward with Aslaug at its head.

An Inquisition scout rushed to meet her. The Redcliffe soldiers looked weary and nearly hostile upon seeing their small group.

“Herald, we’ve spread word of the Inquisition’s arrival, but you should know they were not expecting us.” The scout looked to each of them in turn.

Aslaug frowned and set her free hand on her hip. “The Enchanter gave us guest-welcome,” she insisted.

A tall, rail-thin elf mage in feathered pauldrons and a well-kept robe jogged up behind the scout. “My apologies, Inquisition, but the Grand Enchanter is no longer our leader in these matters. Magister Alexius guides us and only recently received word of your arrival. He requests to meet in the tavern.” He pointed in a vague direction towards the center of the small village. He bowed briefly and took his leave.

The scout raised his brows at her before he joined the small cluster of scouts opposite the soldiers.

Aslaug sucked on her teeth. “Have we been baited?” She asked aloud, impatience bleeding into her. Perhaps magister didn’t mean what she thought it meant. Maybe the boy had been mistaken. It couldn’t be what she thought. It couldn’t. The mere thought set her teeth grinding.

“It is possible.” Solas watched the small village as they moved in a tight group with sharp eyes. He roved over the closed shops and abandoned homes, the small contingent of soldiers were all stationed at the gates instead of patrolling the paths and center. “But I find it unlikely.”

“Why?” Enemies didn’t paint themselves in war paint and cry out their battle frenzies down here or make their dislike of each other known. They were the worst of enemies; they smiled and praised and allowed everyone to be their friend before slipping an unseen knife into an unsuspecting heart.

“The Grand Enchanter was perhaps too desperate for assistance. She needed to protect her people and she already sought us of her own free will. The boy mentioned a magister. The mages could have been...coerced into taking their aid, if it is aid they are being offered.” Solas’s face pulled down in a frown, brow wrinkling.

Aslaug grunted in displeasure but said nothing more on the matter.

The tavern loomed ahead and within it were several mages stationed in various corners strategically. Behind her, Iron Bull straightened his spine and cut an imposing figure. He let out a low grunt.

He’d seen what she saw; the intertwining figures of the dragon and the serpent stitched on a small banner that flapped at the small breeze their intrusion caused. The people within the tavern weren’t from the village either, Aslaug noticed immediately. There were mages but none of them gave them more than a glance before looking away almost fearfully.

The barkeep was perhaps the only person from the village but he looked reluctant to be so. He caught their gaze and turned away completely, wiping a dirty flagon with a dirtier rag.

Aslaug met the eyes of the Grand Enchanter who gave her a brief bow. Her eyes narrowed on the qunari behind Aslaug and the Avvar woman herself before casting a lingering glance towards Vivienne at the left flank of the group. “Welcome, agents of the Inquisition. What has brought you to Redcliffe?” Her tone was suspicious but not hostile or defensive, which Aslaug took as a good omen.

She stepped forward to break away from the group. “You did. You came to us in Val Royeaux when we met with the priestesses and saw the tower-keepers.” With her shield firmly resting on her back over her glaive, Aslaug strode forward confidently, hands open and arms held away from her hips. Fiona’s faithful watched her carefully.

Fiona was already shaking her head. “You must be mistaken. I haven’t been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave.”

Aslaug stopped several feet before her out of respect. “No. I’m not. It was you.” She paused for a long moment, “Unless you allowed a god to take your form?” It wasn’t completely unheard of, a mortal allowing a god to take their form for various reasons but it was often only done in times of great need and she doubted the lowlander mages would ever condone such a thing.

Fiona sputtered, “A god? Surely -”

“Grand Enchanter, we did indeed speak to someone who bore...a very distinct likeness to yourself who invited the Inquisition to treat with you here in Redcliffe,” Solas interrupted.

“I suppose it could be magic at work but why would anyone…?” She stopped herself abruptly. “Whoever, or whatever, brought you here, the situation has changed. The free mages have already pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”

Aslaug felt as though she could have upended every table in the tavern and availed herself to all the ale within and she still would not have found a complete outlet for her sudden rush of anger.

“Ah. Shit,” Iron Bull muttered. She agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment.

“Fiona dear your dementia is showing.” Vivienne’s complete distaste for the other woman showed behind her pretty smile. Aslaug had no idea if she liked the other woman before, but she doubted she did now. “I believe you just openly admitted to allying your so called ‘free mages’ with the Tevinter Imperium.” She tsked, “And in Ferelden nonetheless. There are ways to garner the capital’s interest, my dear, that would have been more... seemly.”

Aslaug felt a small body budge up behind her. “Oi. There’s a lot of friggin’ mages in here, but where're the people?” Sera hissed at her ear. Aslaug started. She’d been cataloging it curiously and she’d assumed they were simply unused to mages and left but - what had Sera seen?

She grunted to show she was listening. “Ain’t hardly anybody in their houses, only ones here are ones without a house or something to sell, yeah? Where’s everybody?” Sera’s hushed whisper had nearly reached a pitch but Aslaug didn’t quiet her. A cold shiver ran down her back between her shoulder blades.

“Sera. Could you...scout?” She asked as diplomatically as she could. Sera gave the room another sweep before she nodded.

“Meet you outside then. Better not leave me here with all of them.” She slipped off with barely a sound and avoided all the mages.

“...you are afraid but you deserve better than enslavement to Tevinter.” Solas’s response to whatever Fiona and Vivienne had been speaking of came through hotly. Aslaug was jerked back to the conversation. Solas had advanced to her left with Vivienne sauntering up slowly behind her. Iron Bull, Aslaug noticed, leaned against a beam and remained the silent, captivated audience.

“As one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you,” Fiona said with a grim finality.

Aslaug scowled, felt the war paint dotted on her lip pull with it, “You gave yourselves freely to a cage.”

“We had no other options, nowhere else to turn!” Fiona insisted despairingly.

Aslaug slashed a hand through the air, possibilities running wild in her head - all of them funneling into this moment with a velocity she couldn’t control. “You allied yourselves with Tevinter .”

Fiona made to respond but a male voice cut her off, “Welcome, my friends. I apologize for not greeting you earlier.”

The very voice, with that accent, made the skin beneath Aslaug’s eye twitch and she nearly reached for her glaive. She turned slowly.

A man clad in armor typical of a Tevinter magister came forth with a small retinue of guards behind him. His eyes ran up what she wore; leather armor and fur with her heavy boots, her climbing axe strapped to her thigh, her hunting knife at her hip and the weapons on her back. His gaze roved over her face paint briefly and his upper lip threatened to curl back.

“Tevinter," she greeted through clenched teeth.

“Avvar,” his voice was similarly warm.

“Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius.” Fiona made his introduction for him formally.

“The southern mages are under my command. And you are the survivor, yes? The one from the Fade? Interesting,” the magister sat at a table and gestured to a seat across from him. Aslaug eyed it as if it were a snake. “I suspect we have much to talk about, you and I.”

She sat, careful not to sit too far back to trap her shield on the back of the chair. “We need mages to close the Great Wound.”

He smiled and nodded as if he expected that. “And we met the Grand Enchanter in Orlais. She gave us guest-welcome to come to Redcliffe.” She leaned forward, hand heavy on the table. “She claims she didn’t. She hasn’t got the scent of a liar.” She narrowed her eyes while Alexius’s smile dissolved. “So I asked her if a god had something to do with it and she says no, and I believe her because they don’t listen to the gods down here. But your kind, Tevinter, use them. Bind them.” She whispered softly so no one else could hear it, “Did you bind a god to take her face?”

Any attempt at humoring her on the magister’s part died a quick death. “You need mages, am I correct, Avvar?” He didn’t wait for her response, “Felix, fetch me a scribe, would you? We have terms to discuss with the Inquisition.”

A young man who resembled Felix in gold colored armor left quickly.

The magister turned back to her with a smile like the edge of a blade. “Regardless of what or who brought you here, you need our aid to close the Breach. I offer it. Not freely, of course, but a reasonable trade may be negotiated between our two factions.”

Aslaug nearly bit her tongue off to keep from snapping back. She wanted to say more, needed to say more, needed to shake the Grand Enchanter until any idea of allying with Tevinter popped out of her head, needed to chase the Tevinters in the room from her with frost and glaive. And she needed to be away from this magister. There was something wrong. So terribly wrong - with him or something he carried. It raised the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

She heard the staggering tread of a person walking closer to her and she looked over to see Felix shambling his way to her. He had no focus in his eyes and she barely kept him from dropping face-first on the floor. She caught him by his upper arms, with Alexius gasping his name in worry behind her.

“My lady, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” He clutched at his stomach and swayed on his knees. Aslaug held his shoulders and was about to feel out what his sickness was when she felt something glide across a fold in her furs. She froze. He took nothing and there was nothing to grab but fur.

“Are you alright?” Alexius was next to them within a heartbeat. Felix tried to dismiss it and stand on his own shakily. The older man’s face creased in doubt. He pulled his son up with him. “I’ll go get your powders. You need your rest. Excuse me, Inquisition, we will have to continue this discussion another time.”

Aslaug watched them leave, the younger leaning on his elder for support and the guards swarming them like bees to a hive. Felix caught her eye over his shoulder as they left and held it until the door swung shut behind them.

She pocketed the scrap of paper he’d left in her furs and addressed the others. “We can’t let them stay here. Sera is scouting the village. She says a lot of the homes are empty.”

“Yeah. Just what Ferelden wants, a big fucking Tevinter camp on their doorstep.” Iron Bull sighed aloud and rubbed his neck. “These mages...I was doing a little listening and they never agreed to this outright. The Grand Enchanter did it all; sounds like a lot of them don’t want to be here,” he said pointedly.

“Precisely why we must move to stop this from continuing,” Solas spoke. “If they are given another option, I doubt many would stay here. They seem uncomfortable with the alliance, put generously.” He clasped his hands in front of him, looking at her beneath his lashes. “We may find allies even now.”

“We should speak with the advisors, my dear. Josephine will no doubt...make arrangements if we must deal with the mages and you seem reticent on bargaining with the templars, and this magister seems open to a trade, if not an alliance in truth,” Vivienne said.

Aslaug pressed her hand to her eyes and said nothing, did nothing. The anger that boiled low in her belly, crept to her chest and spread its heat like a disease.

She made for the door but was stopped by a monotone voice. “Excuse me. Are you with the Inquisition?” A man spoke but his eyes were like sea glass, smooth and nonreflective. She stepped to him and didn’t see Solas’s eyes widen slightly and the swipe he made for her arm but was too late to land contact.

“We are. Are you with the free mages?” She asked.

Solas said there were allies to be had here, maybe this man was one of them. He wore a mage’s garb although he had no staff that she could see.

“Originally, yes. My name is Clemence. But my purpose has been unclear since the Grand Enchanter allied with the Imperium. The magister is uncomfortable with my kind and has asked us to leave Redcliffe. But we have nowhere to go. Perhaps the Inquisition might make use of us?” Although it was a question, there wasn’t any inflection or much emotion she could hear in his tone regarding his circumstances.

Aslaug nodded. “What can you do? Are you a healer, or a warrior? Or do you tend to plants and animals?” She didn’t know how many people he talked about being without sanctuary, but Havenhold could always use more people.

“I do well in alchemy and potion-making however, and would find it satisfactory to be useful.” He didn’t smile or plead his case. There was something about his voice that made her apprehensive. Aslaug’s eyes were drawn the fringe of hair that covered most of his forehead save for the tips of a mysterious design. 

Without asking permission, she lifted his hair from his forehead and stared at the brand.

She met his eyes. “I apologize if my being tranquil disturbs you,” he said.

She removed her hand as if it burned and looked away, met his eyes but was drawn to his mark, and looked away again. A flush crept across her chest and neck, traveling up her throat to nestle like a coal in her mouth. “You - your people. They let him - they let him run you off?” She stumbled, tongue-tied and coltish over her words, so great was the indignation she felt on his behalf.

“Aslaug,” Solas called softly. She ignored him. Vivienne and Iron Bull looked on curiously.

“Yes. I made those from the Imperium uncomfortable, and so they told us we had to leave the village and seek elsewhere for refuge. We were concerned about being attacked by bandits.” He blinked slowly. “We are all useful, Inquisition. We would like to be so again.”

Aslaug’s mouth dried. “Yes. Yes. We will take you. All of you.” She still couldn’t meet his gaze, kept being drawn back to his brand of tranquility. “There’s an Inquisition force by the gates. You and your people can...report to them. They’ll take you to camp, and then Havenhold or wherever we may need you.”

The man bowed. “Thank you, Inquisition. It feels good to have purpose again.”

Aslaug tasted blood when she bit through the inside of her cheek and exited the tavern quickly.

 

...

 

Sera’s report was negative when she came back. Houses had been sacked, doors were unlocked, and neighbors were missing.

She saw no townsfolk. Only the shops that sold weapons and armor were open; all the others were closed. Mages roamed freely; the freest she’d seen of the magic-blooded down here, but there were no traders or hawkers. The streets were startlingly empty when compared to the bustle of Val Royeaux.

The mages that did walk around were anxious, like frightened dogs straining at the leash. They watched the Inquisition forces and Aslaug’s group with wide, wary eyes that couldn’t help but follow their progress. They avoided them altogether although Aslaug tried to corner one to engage her in conversation, the mage fretted so badly, Aslaug let her go out of guilt.

“A fucking magister.” Iron Bull shook his horned head. “ _That_ is why you can’t trust mages.”

“Indeed, Iron Bull,” Vivienne spoke with an air of knowing superiority directed at Solas and Aslaug. “They have made their bed, now we should stop this foolishness and press on to the templars.” She crossed her arms and tilted her head at an angle to peer at them. “Even if the Lord Seeker would not welcome the Inquisition, there are likely templars who might wish to join.”

“Yeah, go get the templars, but what about the people here? They haven’t got any homes, in case you haven’t noticed, Vivi,” Sera spat. The lithe rogue fiddled with the straps that held her quiver. She’d been on edge since stepping into Redcliffe. It was likely all the mages roaming about made her nervous energy worse.

“They are being cared for I imagine, but we cannot risk pursuing this course any further.”

Aslaug sat on a bench outside the tavern with a stormy expression, grazing the side of her thumb over her small knife and looking out toward Redcliffe castle. She barely listened while Sera and Vivienne squabbled, Iron Bull played devil’s advocate for both with interjections of practicality on both sides. Solas let them argue.

“I apologize. I knew it would upset you to meet one of the tranquil but I wasn’t quick enough,” Solas remarked quietly.

“It isn’t your fault. I’ve never...met one of them before,” she hedged, uncomfortable with the topic. Solas saw her discomfort and allowed the matter to fall.

“This was an unforeseen complication.” He stepped into her periphery with his arms folded behind his back and his gaze drawn to the distance as hers was.

“She met us in Orlais. She spoke to us about an alliance. She gave us a letter.” Aslaug recited the order of events with a frown and toyed with the knife, shining it in the setting sunlight overhead that made her sweat her war paint. “But she isn’t lying. Someone or something did that.”

“Agreed. From what I know of her, Grand Enchanter Fiona is a woman of principle and isn’t one to make desperate maneuvers lightly. Her collusion with Tevinter is...unexpected.” His distaste for it was obvious even without Aslaug looking over at him.

“Tevinter,” she nearly spat on the ground in front of her when she said it. “On the lands of my ancestors where their bones lie, and at the foothold of my people.” She pulled a small whetstone from her side pouch and began sharpening the knife. “Can’t imagine you’re excited about this either.”

“Far from it. Tevinter is not known for its kindness towards elves, to say nothing of their practices of slavery, or of their appropriation with my people's culture.” His lip curled. “It is foolish to debate allowing their presence here. Ferelden will not be kind to the mages for falling to such desperate measures, and on their lands.” He looked imploringly at her. “It will doom them.”

Aslaug pursed her mouth. “I’ve no love for Tevinter or any who ally with them so readily.” The scrape of her whetstone rang out harshly in the quiet courtyard. “But leaving these mages here, after that magister took the homes of the people here and drove the arl out, people will call for their blood. And that isn't taking into account how he got to the mages and why Fiona doesn’t remember meeting us.” She tapped the knife against her leg. “I’d rather snap his neck and be done with it.”

Solas cocked his head at her and turned to face her with a frown forming. “Subtlety is required in these matters,” he reproved.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m aware. I said what I’d like to do, not what I will do. We have to go back to Havenhold and figure out what the advisors want. And,” she held out a paper with writing on it to him, “his son slipped that to me when he went ill.”

Solas unraveled it. “‘Come to the Chantry, you are in danger’.”

“Trap? Or would his own blood go against him to overthrow his father?” Aslaug put her knife and whetstone away to lean forward on her knees.

“Either. But - is it worth ignoring?” Solas asked her.

She sighed and crossed her arms, looking over at the other three of the group. “We’ll go to the Chantry. Find out what it is. Maybe his son is better than what Tevinters I’ve known.” Aslaug jerked her head in the direction of their companions. “I'll tell them to wait outside in case it is a trap. I'd rather have one leg out the door.”

Iron Bull agreed with the plan, scoping out a spot where he could casually watch for interlopers. Sera called the plan stupid, and Vivienne seemed mildly disgusted that they were continuing in their course of action.

When night fell and the stars cast out like a splash of water in sunlight across the dark sky, Aslaug pushed the Chantry doors wide open with her glaive and shield ready. Solas followed after her, concealed in shadow and unnoticed corners. Aslaug was absently curious by the way he used his environment. He was slyer than he let on.

The god-mark crackled at her shield angrily, and the response of the strange tear in the temple let out a loud boom, tendrils of pale green flung out like vines to illuminate circles on the ground. Her mark crackled again.

Solas dispelled one of the summoning circles made by the tear, and Aslaug turned to one where a terror demon-god emerged, shrieking like the damned.

A mage outfitted in finery with an appealing almond skin tone lashed out with fire at one of the shades that approached her side. “I was hoping you'd gotten my note!” His tone was jovial but Aslaug had no time to feel anything but the rush of the battle and wariness of this newcomer.

Solas froze the terror that had focused on her and she pushed the teeth of a storm through her glaive, setting it ablaze in lightning when she sunk the point into the ribcage of the demon. It broke apart with the sound of glass shattering, splattering her in its black blood even as she turned from it to fall upon another shade with her shield. She tried to use less of her glaive since with every strike, she was keenly aware of the new skin tugging in protest.

Her barrier fell but another rose in its place. She could taste the buzz of magic on the back of her tongue like lyrium and blood - a curl of magic like smoke and starlight, far-off and dreamy and unlike any she’d felt; it was Solas’s magic.

When the rage demon turned on the unknown mage and Solas, he was already approaching her with a steady stride and banished it with frost. He stood beside her, facing the other mage, while she reached out with her hand to find the loop of the tear and hook it with the god-mark, and yanked it shut from the world of the waking.

“That is marvelous. How does that work exactly?” The handsome mage asked, leaning on his staff casually. He watched her hand with avid interest. He laughed at her curious look. “You don't even know, do you?”

“It was crafted by a god, I don't claim to know their knowledge or creations.” Aslaug hefted her shield consciously and let the tip of her glaive rest in his general direction. “I was given a note to come here. I find a tear of the world and _you_. Why. And do not _lie_ , Tevinter, I know your brethren from my people’s past as I know them now.” She let her warning fall where it would in his mind.

He cleared his throat. “Yes. I did come here to help, strange I know. I'm supposed to be trying to take over the world or enslave it. But Felix sent you here because you are in danger. I have no doubt you already knew that.” His casual manner took a serious turn. “Fiona saw you in Orlais, yes? Alexius used magic to get to the mages of Redcliffe before you. He's manipulating time to out maneuver you however he can and it's unraveling the world.” His voice was forbidding and Aslaug put her weight on her right leg.

“Time magic.” Her disbelief was palpable. The man, still nameless, nodded. She reached out with her magic to touch him. Her within-self was a storm in winter, made of ice and wind and lightning but his was balmy like a jungle with a heat from a flame that burned too hot. The Tevinter hummed in curiosity and allowed her to trace the magic he kept close but apart from his within self. “You're not lying,” Aslaug said in surprise. She looked to Solas who had watched the encounter.

“That is very dangerous. Why would he go through so much trouble to secure the mages unless Tevinter is plotting war on Ferelden? Or are you aware of some other purpose?” Solas walked behind Aslaug, never taking his eyes off of the man, and slowly circled him.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Aslaug followed Solas’s movements. He prowled, one foot in front of the other with a liquid grace she had never noticed before.

“No. His intention was clear, even if his motivation is...less so. What I do know is that having a Tevinter magister camping out in the middle of Ferelden with all the rebel mages bound to him is a very, very bad thing.” He paused and traced his mustache with a finger. “What was that you did, hm? You - I felt your magic, I think, and I imagine you were feeling out mine, but I’ve never had an experience quite like that. Is that common for your people?”

“Dorian.” A familiar voice interrupted and they all turned to it - the magister’s son Felix came forward. He nodded to her. “Herald. I was hoping you’d take the message seriously.”

“Oh, got away from the mother hen, did you, Felix?” Dorian - if that was his name - responded first.

Felix chuckled, if the sound escaping him could be called that. “I shouldn’t have played the sick card. He’ll be after me all day now.”

Dorian looked to Aslaug and gestured to Felix. “Well my dear, he is the man who may have more answers than I. I came in search of the magic Alexius and I developed, but I was never made aware as to why he’s using it.”

“He’s part of a cult called the Venatori, and they’re obsessed with you. And that mark on your hand.” Felix directed his speech to Aslaug.

“Obsessed with possessing it or where it comes from…?” She trailed off at the nearly abashed look on Felix’s face. “Oh. They mean to kill me for it.” Of course. “But there’s no guarantee that the god-mark would work without the rest of me to feed off of.” At least, that’s what she imagined it was doing. With every hook and tear, she felt something respond deep within her; the winter storm she kept felt like a tree being tugged from its roots when it happened, but it was by inches.

Solas’s movement stopped near her, still as a fawn alone in the woods.

Felix’s mouth opened slightly. “Is that what it’s doing? I’m sorry.” His face crumpled in sympathy. He sounded it too and Aslaug was thrown off by the sincerity of his voice and the emotion displayed so nakedly on his face.

“This cult your father is a part of, what do they have to do with the mark, did they help to cause the Great Wound?” She asked rapidly, feeling her teeth set on edge at the thought of being so close to those who did the Lady offense.

He shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure, but it’s possible. They’re following someone called the Elder One. They, I think, want to raise him up as a god. They speak about it enough.”

“Oh, marvellous. As if the rest of the world was unsure whether or not Tevinter was full of giggling megalomaniacs, we now have one that seeks divinity.” Dorian threw his hands into the air.

Aslaug felt as though the floor were a bridge breaking beneath her feet. She laughed grittily. “They wish him to be a god?”

Dorian smiled at her. “Yes, I hear it’s the height of Tevene fashion, one that I’m sadly behind on. Thankfully, he can only reach so high before he is unable to continue. I imagine divinity is possibly a smidge harder than that to achieve.”

The Avvar woman let out a gusty sigh as if all the breath had been squeezed from her at once. “Didn’t you know? Gods come from wishes. If enough wish him to be one, he will be.”

Solas scrutinized her with disquiet written in the tense lines of his body and a stony expression on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex entry “Avvar mage warriors” (taken from conversation in DLCs, the da wiki, and non-canon)
> 
> Mages fill various jobs within the Avvar society; anywhere from healers, to advisors to the thane of a Hold (usually this is regulated to a single mage with a strong connection to spirits the “augur”) who may be referred to as the wiseman or wisewoman, and some mages fulfill roles in battle. They are viewed of separately from the healers, just as the healers are different from them and they do not always have similar training. This apparently stems from the fact that every teacher or “spirit” that possesses an Avvar youth may be more inclined to something. There has to be a connection between the spirit and the child, and the spirit often determines what role the Avvar would be most comfortable in. For example, a healer may have attracted a spirit of serenity while a warrior would most likely attract a spirit of valor. 
> 
> Battle mages are not taught as they are in Circles; in the Circle, there are four accepted schools of practice that are technical in application whereas Avvar magic is seen as more organic, similar to Dalish magic or even tal-vashoth. Unlike observed Dalish behaviors in battle, the Avvar mages will use a sword or axe, or bow along with their magic and do so with surprising finesse. They were once compared to Knight-Enchanters on the battlefield, although this comparison died a quick death after more indepth studies of their methods. 
> 
> Codex entry “Avvar battle chants” (da wiki & non-canon)
> 
> The Avvar are a very musically inclined people. While they do not have a written history (the exception being pictographs), they pass their history down through chants, songs, ballads and various other spoken forms. Often these are metaphorical or mean to be artistic in nature, or impart some ancient wisdom. The Avvar battle chants are a different matter. It is known that the Avvar frequently spar and conduct minor raids to prove worthiness to various gods in the hopes that when they need their assistance in battle, the god will come to their aid. Other ways of attracting a spirit’s attention is a battle chant. An Avvar chants during battle, invoking some spirit for aid - whether for strength, or calm - and the chant works similarly to an invocation. The god or spirit will not respond by coming to their aid in a physical form like so many exaggerated stories will tell; they often impress their will or strength to the Avvar chanting or enhance their abilities. The chants are often specific to a single god, but there are many nonspecific forms of chants meant to attract any god willing to help.


	11. fen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bog, wetland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys rock. I’m going through some various issues with my medications and whatever so this has really been my escape from that so I don’t have to constantly worry about it. Thank you all for helping alleviate my anxiety. 
> 
> And to the anon (because I’m assuming you’re reading this) who asked if I wouldn't mind making Aslaug an elf because it’s a Solasmance and would make more sense - I encourage you to write that story yourself. I think you'd do it better than I would. 
> 
> This chapter was born because schemers gotta scheme (even if we do adore them) also some insight surprise! Mmm. Insight.

They had only been back in Haven for four days, and already the advisors were pushing for action. The trek to Redcliffe had cost them time, not to mention the very minor side ventures they had taken. He could already blame them for pushing, though. Time was something they didn't have an abundance of, particularly in light of what the free mages had elected to do when backed into a corner.

Solas ran his fingers across the map on the war table lightly. He didn’t disturb the military figures stationed in key spots, courtesy of the Commander, or the tiny flags placed by Josephine regarding diplomatic issues or possible alliances. He made note of where the wooden ravens were placed: Ferelden, Orlais, Kirkwall, and Starkhaven - interesting.

None of the advisors had arrived at the meeting they had scheduled yet, and Cassandra and Aslaug were supposed to be out running drills with the recruits or sparring until the second mealtime. Whatever frustrations they had to work out between the two of them seemed best addressed in the ring. If not for magic, Aslaug would have lost to Cassandra without question in melee or hand to hand combat. She wasn’t used to fighting solely with melee, but the Seeker encouraged it in the event they met templars capable of a smite. The Seeker pressed her hard, but from the look on Aslaug’s face after the battle, it was a welcomed lesson even if she did sport evidence of it for days.

Cassandra’s unflinching steadfastness in battle was a sight to behold; something he had remarked to her before, but it was not necessarily a compliment - she threw herself into the battle as an arrow loosed from a bowstring with a single destination. Aslaug was similar in the way she flung all that she was into a fight, although her concentration was different. Cassandra focused on finishing the fight as quickly and efficiently as possible while forcing the enemy to concentrate their efforts on her.

Aslaug enjoyed fighting. Whether it was a quirk of her people or something unique to her, Solas wasn’t certain. She would speak in her native tongue at times during battles, but he was never sure if she was calling out to a god, or taunting her opponents, or cursing them. Occasionally, she would sing. It wasn’t the sort of singing he would expect from a choir or a court entertainer, of course, but it had a certain compelling rhythm to it nonetheless. Her taste for battle had given him cause to be wary in the very beginning, but she took little pleasure in killing. The exception being templars or the Tevinters they had encountered on the Storm Coast although the particular intricacies of that aspect of her culture were foggy, to say the least.

He supposed that to her people it was different.

Solas regretted not venturing further into the memories of the Avvar or their cousins. Although their methods were cruder and they seemed to relish battle too much for his liking, they had insight beyond what he would have believed them capable of, if Aslaug was a fair measure of them. She could be a fluke. As confrontational and bold as she was, he had feared she would not listen to reason or indeed accept the idea of other cultures or hardships. Most subtleties were lost on her, unfortunately, and she dove in headfirst to whatever caught her attention with a brash fearlessness.

However, she listened more than he thought she would. Took into account that she didn’t know these lands and didn’t understand them, and admitted she had wronged the mages here by thinking of them the way she had. He had known beings ages old who couldn’t do the same.

He was grateful for her company. The way she viewed the lands, and spirits and magic was...a reprieve in this hollow world. She spoke of spirits, her gods, with such unfeigned love - not the worship he had witnessed directed at the Evanuris, or the devotion humans held to their Maker. To hear her tell it, gods had to be wooed or impressed somehow whether they were the peaceful sort or the ones that enjoyed the battlefields. But it didn't reach the heights of faith he was accustomed to seeing.

When he had questioned her about why her people worshipped spirits as they did, he had been curious if they worshipped them the same way the Elvhen had once did with the pantheon or if it was closer to Andrastianism.

Her definition, or the Avvar definition, of divinity was complex even if her explanation was not: “They are the best of us, and the worst of us. Isn’t that what a god is?” She’d asked him over a flagon of mead she’d won from Krem in a spar.

She spoke of the Frostbacks - a difficult, icy snowscape with little comfort against the harsh elements that commanded it - with a bone-deep homesickness. Although Haven snowed and was chilly enough for those who didn’t wear proper layers or know a spell to ward off the cold as he did, Aslaug was able to walk in her underlayers; thin pants that silhouetted her legs and corded leather bindings that showed the muscles of her arms and a diamond shaped patch of bare skin at her stomach. She hadn’t exaggerated that; the Avvar were made for winter.

Her vehement oath to protect Solas in the beginning of the Inquisition had been the true start of his observations. “Augur,” she had called him. Some research had explained to him what she hadn’t immediately revealed. A title of respect to rival a thane. Speaker to and for the gods, guide to the mages of a Hold, a shamanic healer, and a scholar of sorts.

To her, that was his purpose, and it had afforded him more respect from her than he would have imagined from a human. The Avvar don’t care for such things, she’d said, only lowlanders. He had doubted that they were so different originally, but she’d proven him wrong. They were so different, and each Hold had slight cultural variations, different gods were venerated even if much of their lore was shared from its Alamarri roots.

She had made it no secret that there were dwarves who became Avvar. Were there also elves among the Avvar? Qunari? He suspected there were; she’d spoken briefly of a test that would need to be passed as well as permission from the augur and thane of the Hold - or marriage, but she’d glossed over Avvar marriage very vaguely.

He hadn’t asked although he had no doubt that if he did, she would answer him. She was proud of what she was and what she came from and saw no shame in it. While she begrudged certain aspects of the culture she was now surrounded by, she was more curious and frustrated by her own lack of understanding than any true hatred.

As such, she turned to a source she knew and trusted, graced with a name that bespoke of high honor among her people.

He attended every council, read her messages, explained what he knew and would read aloud to her on subjects she knew little about. Despite the intentions of her advisors, there hadn’t been any time for her to be learning letters, not truly. She memorized the alphabet they used for common well enough; something he suspected came from deciphering glyphs, but she couldn’t truly read on her own. At first, it had been something he thought of as a burden, but there were advantages to it he couldn’t so easily ignore.

Although she couldn’t read Fereldan script or Orlesian, she knew star charts by heart as well as the movements of the ocean, and weather patterns and their subsequent correlations. She recognized plants and animals and their uses with ease, naming some he had forgotten or didn’t know. She was even talented at numbers and calculations. He had been surprised when she’d completed an arithmetic formula and she’d laughed at him. “We trade with dwarves. We have to know our numbers.”

He was slightly abashed to admit that he had thought of her education as lesser, and by default her, upon finding out about her illiteracy. Just because she could not read didn’t mean she was hopeless. It did nothing to stem her inquisitive nature. There were other ways, Wisdom had said, to learn something. It had been correct.

He’d assumed she would be another brute with her sword at the ready, eager to cleave her way through a crowd and force her strange ways on everyone. She expressed irritation freely and voiced her confusion without shame, and though some frowned upon it, it had eased his worries. She didn’t consider herself above and beyond reproach. Even if she insisted there were better ways for things, she was mindful that her ways were not the ways of everyone. She was surprisingly more courteous to them about it than they were to her.

The people didn’t realize that with her power and the sway she held over the Inquisition and indeed the Chantry’s future, how precious that was. How rare. Instead, they mocked her questions once out of earshot or sighed with great suffering at the savage in their midst who simply didn’t understand spirits or magic or the civilized world.

Pity.

He heard Leliana and the Commander arguing beyond the door and soon the voices of Aslaug, Cassandra, and Josephine joined in. It was time.

His eyes landed on the tiny flag and the dog figurine planted on the outline of Redcliffe castle.

 

...

 

Aslaug squinted in the light of the fire in her cabin as it burned lower. She constantly told them to just let it reach to embers since it was too hot for her anyway, but they ignored her. They were probably afraid she’d get sick or freeze to death. She held a book near the candle that flickered at the desk.

POPULAR puh-aa-puh-uu-larr.

WRITINGS. Wuh-rit. How did a ‘w’ sound next to an ‘r’? ‘W’ always sounded like ‘wah’ or ‘wuh’ but there was an ‘r’ next to it. How did it change?

Aslaug groaned and tossed the small book aside. The least they could do was provide her with stories or poems - or even children’s books - instead of the dry manuals and journal writings about Andraste and the Maker. She preferred letting Solas read aloud to her and asking questions or debating the subject.

He had a far more soothing, steady voice than she did with all the ways she stumbled and butchered their writing. She’d fallen into a trance more than once when he read although she’d been tired before he’d started reading.

But she wasn’t going to be the fool. She had to learn at some point - even though she felt that the Inquisition was coming to its end after they closed the Great Wound. It was still frustrating. They all had different spoken and written languages and none of them could understand each other without a lengthy education. Even if one couldn’t speak Avvar or any Alamarri at all, anyone who could see could understand their glyphs. All Avvar spoke some dwarven - all of the Orzammar dialect, some Kal-Sharok, and the common tongue found across all the lands. Few could write or read it unless they were a trader.

She stood and paced the tiny length of the cabin and wished for the material of a traveling yurt or the heavy carved stone of a hut.

Being in the walls of Havenhold wasn’t like the comfort she’d found in Lurkerhold. Lurkerhold had been her mother’s birthplace and where she herself had come into the world screaming. Lurkerhold smelled of yarrow and chervil where rabbits and nugs were aplenty. The screams of hawks overhead were accompanied by birdsong, the screech of the owl preluded the chorus of the ice wolves found only in the most wintry of places. If she so wished, Aslaug could walk in the land of dreams and find her teacher there.

Havenhold didn’t smell like yarrow and she hadn’t seen chervil since she left Lurkerhold. There were no ice wolves or great herds of giant elk this far down.

She clawed at the walls to leave, to range beyond this place she had made her home that still didn’t feel like home. Even though she grew weary of traveling to so many places with little time to explore on her own, Havenhold was not a comfort to her. She had believed in the beginning that it would wear off, but now she simply hoped it would. Homesickness and the want for people who understood her wore on her, even though her relations with the people in Havenhold had improved. Though traveling wasn't something the Avvar were used to, she couldn't deny there was a part of her that marveled at the world she had never imagined. 

The meeting earlier in the day had been tiresome, cutting into her time for learning, but so great a necessity she hadn’t been able to turn away. The issue of the mages and the templars.

She had chosen to support the mages wholeheartedly. The idea of more tower-keepers around her raised her flesh and churned her stomach. She had witnessed what Cassandra, loyal comrade and Holdmate, could do to mages. She had no desire to surround herself with people who could do the same, but held none of Cassandra’s honor.

This had sparked an argument spearheaded by Cullen, who was wary and distrustful of mages in general but not hateful. Cassandra, who had advocated for gathering templar support from the beginning, joined in.

Josephine had quelled the argument in that pacifying manner she was so capable of by stating that it was entirely possible for Aslaug to get mage support while Cassandra, more at ease with the templars, could try to seek out what remnants of templars there were that didn’t completely support the Lord Seeker. A man by the name of Delrin Barris was brought up, and Cassandra and Cullen both agreed that they should seek him out first and foremost.

Gathering the mages and ushering the Tevinter forces out would be up to Aslaug.

Not that she minded. She wasn’t going to bind them to her, but they would earn their place with the Inquisition. Whether or not it was called the Inquisition, so long as they made her their leader and expected her to shoulder their burdens, she would oversee it the way a thane would a Hold. That, and _Tevinter_.

Their tasks were set.

Cullen was putting his contacts feet-first on the ground for Cassandra to follow-up with and Leliana was preparing a plan of attack on Redcliffe castle. Josephine elected to multitask to prepare for the arrival of both factions. But the predominant issue was that their supplies and support would be stretched too thin if they were to launch a pincer maneuver. Aslaug would need to hunt for people to bolster their ranks and help the scouts mark out any supplies found.

At the end of the meeting, Aslaug had bade Leliana to wait with her while the war room emptied. Solas had given her a curious glance, but little else. Aslaug had only advised Leliana to send out an appeal to the Frostbacks, ranging from Lurkerhold to its sibling Holds and various allies. She also encouraged contacting King Bhelen of Orzammar; while he may not lend troops, he would likely offer discounted lyrium and gold to show support. What she knew of the young king was that he tended to keep a fairly close eye on the surface. He would want to be kept in the loop during these times.

Leliana had given her a cat-smile beneath her hood. “We could use interesting allies.” She acquiesced before writing a formal letter - one the augur or trader would read - and Aslaug had drawn a glyph of her name marked with her thumbprint in blood to show authenticity. She had offered to run it up herself; they were her people and she would know how to approach them best, but Leliana waved her off: “I have someone who may help us with that. And besides, we need you elsewhere. I have word from the Fallow Mire.”

Thus her journey had been decided. She had been aching to leave Havenhold’s walls since the disaster at Redcliffe over two weeks ago, but not to the Fallow Mire. There were few more miserable places according to anyone she spoke to.

Aslaug snuffed the cabin fire and stripped herself of her furs. She lingered at the open window in her underclothes and stared out into the night at the campfires and the disturbing sky overhead, not so peaceful or beautiful by moonlight any longer.

Leliana had promised to seek out the Avvar and Orzammar, as well as plan a proper route into the castle. There was a secret entrance, she’d said, but the Inquisition had too few people to take it without it being a complete gamble. Aslaug agreed. She wasn’t sure how many people the magister truly had hidden away with the walls or how many of the free mages would fight back. Gathering allies and searching for more was the current priority.

Defeating the Hand of Korth would earn Havenhold Hold-honor among the Avvar and at the very least show that she wasn’t a foolish, unknowing doll that danced to the whims of lowlanders. “Deal with the issue as you see fit,” Leliana had said with a knowing gaze.

Aslaug blew the candle out.

 

…

 

“Well. This is a bloody delightful walk,” Blackwall mumbled behind a wet beard. He looked the most strained. “Can’t imagine why no one volunteered for this.” His horse looked equally aggrieved.

“Friggin’ sucks. Sucks _eggs_ ,” Sera added, sodden as a rat pulled from a river. Her mare, a smaller strider gave out the odd, warbling squeal whenever she had to tug out an ergot or a sunken fetlock from the ever deepening mud.

Solas, despite being just as wet as everyone, was the most comfortable. The giant red hart he sat upon had long enough legs that sinking was a hardly a concern. It did let out a low bellow at the sight of an enormous mud-rat that squeaked hideously at the sight of the group. The hart dipped its head and showed its rack. Sera let out a short screech at the mud-rat and her strider eyed the rat that snapped its long crooked jaws at the mounts, slipping out a forked tongue.

It wriggled backward towards the stagnant pond it had made its den near, hissing.

Aslaug’s forder ignored everyone, and everything, and lipped at the slimy bulbs of a black lotus bobbing near the water’s edge. The mud-rat hissed again shortly, but the forder nearly stepped on it, and it slithered away.

“Eugh. I hate this place. Why’d you pick me to come here? I hate these places. I like cities and towns not...whatever that was,” Sera muttered, kicking her strider to keep pace with Blackwall’s armored destrier.

Aslaug, soaked in her furs and her bogfisher leathers with her war paint running from her neck to her chest, tired of the road to the Mire. The road was mostly level, but the closer they rode to the Mire, the headier the stink of the wetlands got. A smell that was brought on by the breezes that heralded the heavy random rainfalls that plagued them.

Ahead, she spotted a muskeg that stretched beyond what her eyes could see and she urged her nameless forder along. The road they had been trudging along disappeared beneath it.

“Swallow-weeds ahead,” she called out to Blackwall who rode at the front of their company with Sera at his side and Solas in the middle while she pulled up the flank.

“You call them swallow-weeds?” He yelled back, already steering his horse to the edge of it and slowing him.

“What do you call them?”

“Duckweed.”

Aslaug made a face. “Why would you call it that?”

“Uh...ducks eat it, I suppose. Other than that...I don’t really know why.” He admitted and cursed loudly when his destrier waded deeper into the dark depths, pulling along moss and weeds with it. Sera’s strider stopped stubbornly before the water. Sera kept rocking urgently in the saddle to move her to no avail.

Blackwall’s horse had sunk to the point its abdomen brushed the top of the water although it continued to move forward.

Aslaug stopped her forder beside the spotted strider and tied a rope to its neck from her saddle. Sera had stopped squirming and was now watching Blackwall’s progression warily. “Really have to go in there? Really?”

“I am waiting until he’s reached the other side,” Aslaug said. “I have no idea what is in the water.” Sera sniggered, but both of them watched Blackwall. Solas reined his hart beside them and apparently shared their sentiments. He inclined his head but said nothing. He had been quiet even before they’d started this trek, although she wasn’t sure why, but he wasn’t acting like she’d offended him. It could be simply the thought of traversing the swamplands.

All of them watched the water carefully.

Blackwall turned once in his seat to see all three of his companions remaining on dry land and made a rude gesture before righting himself.

Once at the other side where the ground was relatively dry, he called back but his words were eaten by the wind and the empty space of the abrupt end of their road, now to be carried on through marshes and swamps and dark mangroves that hid unknown things.

Solas was next. He bent his head to the hart’s ears to whisper its name, Adahleni, and spoke elvish to it. Its large ears swiveled at the sound of his voice and it moved forward gracefully, not sinking as deeply as the destrier had.

Aslaug looked to Sera who grimaced back. “Now or never?”

Aslaug nodded gravely. Of all of them, Sera would sink the most. The forder moved first and hesitated only for a moment at the touch of the cold water rippling from the hart’s wake in front of him. Then he slogged forth, stretching his neck out to catch and nibble at the moss clumps and large lily pads slowly orbiting in the water. She stopped him and clicked her tongue at the strider.

“What did you name her?” Aslaug asked Sera who was trying to urge her strider forward again with little result.

“Pocket.” Sera didn’t miss a beat with the name and Aslaug’s slow blink in response made her sniff loudly. “It’s the spot she’s got ‘round her belly, alright? Looks like a little pouch or something.”

“Pocket,” Aslaug called, gentling her voice and giving the rope a gentle tug, reaching behind her to show her secret weapon: dried apple slices she’d saved in her furs in watertight pouches. The strider’s ears pricked forward and she snuffled an apple slice from Aslaug’s fingers. “Give her a nudge. Gentle, though. She’s never been around water, I think.”

Sera awkwardly patted the side of the mare’s neck and gave her the littlest nudge Aslaug had ever witnessed. It was enough to get the mare moving, although she danced around anxiously once she hit the water. Aslaug tugged on the rope gently until the mare’s chin butted against the forder’s flank and she sidled closer, resting on him.

“There we go,” Aslaug murmured and urged her forder. He came to life, still chewing on whatever else he’d found and Pocket moved after him immediately, keeping her chin on his flank and drawing some comfort from his presence in front of her.

Their pace was slow, but steady enough even when the water level rose. Aslaug’s forder was patient, or simply apathetic, enough that he didn’t care about the water level or the fact that the entire time Pocket was snorting and huffing along his back while she tried her best to keep up.

Solas’s hart moved most of the thick reeds out of the way through its sheer height and bulk, tugging and snapping the watery roots of the plants with ease.

At the other side, Blackwall was leading the way to where posts of the Inquisition’s heraldry flapped in the wind. The group led on, Aslaug slipped the rope from Pocket’s neck, who immediately put distance between herself and the forder after nipping him harshly enough to make him swat at the area with his tail.

“Thank the Maker. I see a fire going. Maybe I can dry these clothes off me. Not that it’ll do anything for the smell,” Blackwall complained in a low voice.

Scout Harding was already waiting for them when they arrived, eyebrows raised in amusement at the sight of the group. “Hm. Special leathers still doing the trick, Your Worship?” Although she used titles Aslaug despised, but the woman was unafraid to show some humor in front of her; a small thing Aslaug never thought she had taken for granted until...everything.

She gave the scoutmaster the barest bones of a smile. “My furs are ruined. But at least my bands are dry.” She gave a brief gesture to the others. “More than I can say for them.”

Scout Harding scratched the side of her nose with a small chuckle. “Should I give my report now or wait until you’ve all had time to settle in?”

Aslaug waved to the others and slid from her forder, tying him loosely to the twisted, blackened remains of a tree. He moved closer to the tall boulders that ringed the camp and casually lipped at the moss that grew on them. Blackwall and Sera escorted their mounts in the camp and Blackwall made for a large tent while Sera flung herself at the side of the fire.

Solas released his hart from its reins and saddle, patting its cheek with a gentle hand. He met Aslaug’s gaze briefly but stayed close.

“Our soldiers?” Aslaug crossed her arms and winced at the squelch her wet furs gave. Her preferred furs of hare or fennec fox, couldn’t stand well up to the climate of this place. Worse that she’d just finished drying and sewing it just a few weeks past, she hadn’t brought any furs that would have perhaps done better in this weather. She would need to dry it out properly or risk it rotting off in clumps.

Harding lost her smile and her hands went behind her back. “We haven’t received word since well, you were challenged. All we know is that he’s holed up in some fort south of here and he wants to 'take the head of the herald of Andraste'. He wants to see which god is stronger, theirs or…” Harding trailed off. “Um. What they think is yours.”

Aslaug was too exhausted to keep her eyes from rolling to the back of her head, “Idiot.” She heard Solas snort.

“Whatever he wants, we don’t think he’s killed our men yet.” Harding’s face soured.

Aslaug felt her own face reflect what she saw in the scoutmaster’s. Captives.

“I know he’s one of your people -” Harding began but Aslaug cut her off.

“He isn’t mine. He sounds like an honorless misbegotten bastard. Avvar don’t take captives to lure out people for the sake of glory.” She shifted and pursed her lips when she felt water squish in her boots. “After I dry myself off and we get ready, we’ll make for a new camp and find this…‘Hand of Korth’.” The distaste with which she said his name was palpable.

Harding nodded. “Of course Your Worship, I’ll have one of the boys draw out a general map of the area. Oh...and uh, you may want to stay away from the water. There’s a lot of undead around here.”

Aslaug tried not to slump visibly. From the way Harding grinned at her, she didn’t succeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of the fic comes from the song by Lisa Gerrard "Tell it from the mountain". 
> 
> Codex entry “Adahleni” 
> 
> Name from Fenxshiral’s Project Elven, means “friend of the forest”. Adalehni is the great red hart mount found in game as a gift from the Dalish clan.
> 
> Codex entry “Hold-honor” (non-canon) 
> 
> Holds keep a close record of other Holds, more precisely their favored gods, if any of their people bear a legend-mark, and what honors a Hold bears or if it bears having respect toward. Similar in the way noble families take stock of each other, Hold-honor functions much the same. In this particular instance, Aslaug is thinking of notoriety that can be gained if she kills the Hand of Korth in combat by killing someone who called out Havenhold/Inquisition and took their soldiers.


	12. fen twa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Fallow Mire, a little bit of Aslaug insight, and possibly buildup for another Solas POV in the future. 
> 
> I love all of you who review, leave a kudos, bookmark or just come by to read. I don't always get to respond to reviewers, but I do appreciate that you take the time and I always read and reread them. 
> 
> Du er den fell gata - “You are the mountain path” An Avvar idiom meant to show trust in someone else’s guidance or advice.  
> Vega, sút-dotten - “Fight, winter-daughter”

Of all the places to hate, Aslaug hated this place the most.

The putrid scent of rot crowded her sense of smell. The festering smell she could smell on her the longer they lingered in this place. It clung to her furs, which Solas had used a spell that had dried them instantly and helped the water slough off as it would on duck feathers. The smell stayed, though. It was like making her bogfisher leathers all over again.

The trails of the Mire were narrow. Tall rocks hung over their heads ominously while lightning split the night. There was a full moon overhead but the unnatural, thick mist that coiled at their feet obscured the path nearly completely.

Harding hadn’t exaggerated. The dead were restless in this place.

In the gloom of the dark waters, a corpse would at times float to the top, bobbing as if the Mire had released it upon their arrival.

Earlier, Blackwall had slipped to one knee in the water, slogging through it to reach dry land again and four corpses had risen in response. They died easily through fire and lightning, but it was disturbing to see them roused so easily. This would be why there were no animals in the Mire that she could see.

A murder of crows watched the group, picking at the corpses they had killed. The cleverest of the Lady’s servants, and the most sinister.

It was, all in all, not the best journey she’d taken.

The worst of it had yet to come. The group stumbled upon a pile of burnt corpses next to a small hut, and enclosed in the hut was the bloated body of a woman and papers scattered around her. Blackwall kept watch outside the hut with Sera who’d drawn her bow and refused to let go. Solas went first and Aslaug followed even as she gagged at the scent and he wrinkled his nose.

“ ‘It’s a disease. It’s in the children. They’re all coughing, fever, chills. They all have it. We have to get out. We have to get out. We have to leave the children. The Mire will take us all if we don’t. We have to get out,’ ” Solas read aloud gravely. Aslaug eyed the body of the woman and peered over at the corpse pile.

“I see no children,” she murmured quietly.

Solas looked out to the still waters. “That doesn’t mean they aren’t here anymore.” He set the papers aside and gestured for her to leave. Aslaug slunk out of the hut and he followed before he razed the cabin and burnt the bodies near it. “Scout Harding’s men found more cabins. It would be wise to...check them thoroughly.” The fire spat and rotting fat popped within it.

The fire consumed all evidence that anyone had ever lived in that spot. Despite the rainfall, Solas’s fire-magic was strong enough to combat it and burn bone to nothing.

“Something’s wrong with this place.” Sera punctuated with a long sniff. “Something’s, something’s gone bad.”

“It’s peat. Well, and the dead things,” Blackwall said, scuffing his boot along the trail and crushing a plushy, dark flower underfoot.

“Not that . I know what dead and rot smell like, alright? This is...different, all - I dunno. Smells like...like…” She trailed off.

“The ground is sour here. I smell it as well, Sera,” Solas said quietly. His eyes flashed in the darkness under his hood when he turned to look at Aslaug. “It would be best not to tarry in these parts.”

A small ridge topped by a tall stone pillar bore a torch with no light and the faintest glimmer of a glyph. The augur had used a similar technique on the walls of Lurkerhold’s star cave, a secret thing told only by god-fire. The history of Lurkerhold’s gods, instructions of invocation and how to kill a god or invoke a rebirth. The history of how the Avvar, the Alamarri, came to be, and how they would end.

Aslaug breathed into the empty torch and green fire, translucent and nearly watery roared up. The glyph was decipherable - letters that weren’t her own, but jumbled, incoherently written numbers crowded the god-fire’s secret message. A sense of panic, written through the spirit and will of the writer of the glyph echoed through it. Aslaug opened her mouth to call Solas or Blackwall to her to find out if they could understand it.

Green ghost-lights fled from the beacon and entered the water like tadpoles squirming. Her mouth snapped shut.

A sound like a hammer hitting a vein of stone resonated across the waters. A long green taloned hand punched through the water’s surface and clawed at the muddied grass, ripping into the soil and the creature dragged itself out with a high pitched screech. It was a terror god with a high, scooped set of antlers that looked like a crown of brambles. The water behind it rippled and the dead rose.

It staggered up to meet the group clustered near the pillar.

“And look at what you did. ‘Ooo weird fire thingy with the glittering scribbling, let’s touch it.’ It’s like you never learn.” Sera babbled quickly, furiously, and fired off three arrows at once, somersaulting in midair away from the terror god that reached for her. She cloaked herself in darkness and faded from sight. She yelled at the sight of more undead lurching up behind them.

Blackwall let out a war cry and smacked the flat of his blade against his shield. “You two, watch that side, Sera and I will take care of this one. Don’t let them press you!” He yelled over the screams of the dead. He went into the fray first, barreling through the groans and hisses of the walking corpses that climbed the other side of the hill to reach them. Sera was already firing into the crowd around him.

Aslaug called lightning to feed into her glaive, sparks rising from its bladed tip. She wasn’t nearly talented enough to wield fire properly to do the same or do much with it besides light a campfire, but she could use the storm well enough.

Solas burned a line through the undead, expression tight and focused. He raised one hand, palm up, twisted his wrist and slammed it to the ground. Molten fire bled from the muddy earth and Aslaug watched, transfixed by his strange magic. It wasn’t normal fire. It was bright orange and black and blazed hotter than any fire Aslaug had ever felt. It felt eerily similar to a god of wrath.

The undead snapped like kindling under it and the terror god paused, head cocked and it hung back. “Aslaug!” Solas snapped. His strained expression looked somewhat annoyed.

She straightened, abashed at having been caught gawking at him during a fight. She climbed over the mossy rocks and slid down to meet the terror god directly, safe in the knowledge that Solas would end any of the undead.

It sniffed her deeply and grinned. The gaping maw in its throat crinkled with its jagged, thorn-like teeth. Her breath came to her in short spurts, panicked and horrified as if she couldn’t breathe any longer. A distinct piercing peal began.

She felt nearly overwhelmed with a sudden sense of nausea. “How far your feet have taken you. Where are your ice and stone now? You’ve shed yourself as a snake sheds its skin.” Aslaug gagged, felt bile rise up and shook her head powerfully when her vision swam dangerously. “You know what will happen once this is over.” She heard a voice yell something behind her, but the ringing in her ears prevented her from parsing it out. Her knees failed her and she dropped her glaive from nerveless fingers. A hand gripped under her chin and around her jaw. The skin felt frayed and scaly. The tips of the fingers tightened. “They will burn you. As they burned her. ‘Fire is her water.’ They will make it yours too, Aslaug No One’s Daughter of Nowhere.”

The ringing in her ears worsened and her eyes rolled back.

Hot air that smelled like iron breathed damply on her face.

And then she was burning - no not her, her skin was warm, but there was heat all around her and it chased the clouded fogginess of her mind, steadied her galloping heart. Fire roared around her; orange and yellow and something screamed - she wasn’t sure if it was her or not. There was magic that felt like smoke and starlight. Solas. It was Solas.

What was happening?

She blinked hard and came back to herself. The ringing was gone. The nausea left so quickly she felt her stomach clench in response. She felt something warm ooze down her cheek. The terror god writhed in pain, screaming a name that sounded familiar although she couldn’t place it. She was on her knees in the mud, glaive cast aside and her shield was down, but there was a barrier around her she hadn’t raised.

“Get up, Aslaug. Get off your knees.” Solas’s voice was much closer than he had been earlier. He was right behind her. A lean hand gripped her arm beneath her armpit and forced her to follow it. “Do not listen to it. It’s grown strong here.” The fire twisted and the terror god screamed its pain even as it laughed and its wide jaws hung open in a smile.

Aslaug forced herself to move and she gripped her glaive with a furious, renewed purpose, called lightning and frost to her to coat her weapon. She yelled out a battle cry and slammed into the terror god. The fire twisted around her to allow her entry before dying.

The corrupt god pitched on its back, convulsing when she let lightning sink into it. She pointed her glaive at its prominent ribcage where its heart would be before driving into it with more force than was necessary. Its body broke apart into shattered remnants before melting from the mortal realm.

She panted and leaned heavily on her glaive. Her heart beat in her chest hard enough that she thought it would shatter her from the inside. A hand rested lightly on her shoulder, and when she didn’t remove it, the hand clamped down harder. “Catch your breath. I will speak with Blackwall and Sera,” he soothed.

She shook her head in the negative. “No. We press on. We’ve no time to stop just because I left myself open.” A child would know better, even if the terror god had been strong, she still shouldn’t have given it power.

Solas fell silent for a moment and his hand slipped away. “As you will.”

She inhaled and held her breath before releasing it. “If we light beacons like this, it draws the dead out. And the gods of the Mire. Easier to kill that way,” she said shortly.

Solas nodded slowly. “It would be strategically advantageous for us. It would, however, mean more demons.” He saw the pale flesh behind her war paint and his brow wrinkled but smoothed over quickly.

“Let them come. They need a good killing.” Aslaug forced one foot in front of the other, pausing to clasp Solas’s arm. “Thank you. It would have ripped my head clean off.” She couldn’t find the energy to smile at him so she jostled his arm before releasing him and found the path where the next stone pillar rose above the ground. She wiped at her cheek and found a mixture of her blood and war paint mixing. She left it.

Sera was wiping black, thick ooze from her arms and she glared at Aslaug. “Take me to a friggin’ swamp. Oof. You’re getting sooo many leeches in your bedroll. So. Many.”

Blackwall shook off desiccated pieces of the enemy from his sword and shield. “So. You and Solas figure lighting all these beacons would draw them out? Best to fight them in the light, on land than stumble over them in the bloody dark,” he said agreeably. He nodded at Aslaug, hesitated a moment, and then asked. “You alright? I looked over and saw that demon holding you like that…”

Aslaug cleared her throat, felt a flush steal over her cheeks and down her chin. “I made a mistake. I underestimated it.”

Blackwall softened. “Ah. Well. Happens to all of us. And if it doesn’t, you won’t learn anything.”

“We will lose the moonlight shortly.” Solas pointed at the sky. “We must move quickly before we lose all the light.”

Sera blew a raspberry directed at all of them.

Lightning split the sky overhead while they moved. The moonlight was swallowed by clouds and soon the only light that lit their way completely was Havardir; the teeth of the storm that raged across the night-veil of the Lady. He snapped and growled overhead while rain fell without interruption.

Sera and Solas picked their way without issue across the sinking wetlands while she and Blackwall stumbled in the darkness, cautious of waking more of the dead. Sera trotted to the Warden’s side, acting as a guide. Aslaug felt Solas slow until he was near her. Without asking, she gripped his shoulder and walked behind him, careful not to step on his heel or kick his calf.

No one spoke when they found the next pillar, unlit torch at its side and for a moment, Aslaug felt the echo of the terror god that had gripped her earlier. Solas, perhaps sensing her reluctance, lit the torch. Blackwall brought his shield up and Sera scrambled to perch on top of a tall stone cluster.

Aslaug brought her shield and glaive up to bear and Solas lay down a ring of fire around the group that the undead would first have to brave to reach them.

The fight ended quickly. The terror gods that rose to heed the call of the beacon were minor and could not speak in words she understood. Their presence set her teeth on edge, but Solas burned them where they stalked before they got too close. Aslaug felt some comfort that she wasn’t needed to meet them, but her shame at her foolish mistake and needing someone to save her was perhaps as great.

Between Sera’s arrows and Solas’s fire barrier, the undead were finished off very quickly, and Blackwall and Aslaug only had to kill those that made it too close. The runes in this place were even less coherent than its predecessor, but Sera found a journal.

She flapped the waterlogged book to get most of the wetness off of it. “Pfft. Someone’s bad at writing.” She squinted at it.

“I hardly think you’re in a position to condemn someone else’s penmanship,” Solas retorted.

“And?”

Solas shook his head and held out his hand. Sera flung the book at his face but he caught it deftly. “An apostate by the name of Widris took refuge in the Mire. She’s dealing with demons.” He frowned. “Very poorly.”

“Eugh. Why’s it always demons with you people?” Sera grumbled and adjusted her bow on her back. She paused. “Well, not you. You’re a mage but you don’t really do...mage-y things,” Sera said to Aslaug. “You do a lot of yelling and waving your pointy stick around, though.”

“She’s Avvar. Spirits are their gods,” Solas mentioned casually, tucking the book away and leading them to the next beacon.

Sera wrinkled her nose. “And he went and ruined it. Or you did. Can’t tell which. Maybe both?”

The next beacons were similarly easy now that they had a strict formula to apply to for the situation. Aslaug and Blackwall provided immediate martial support but allowed Sera and Solas to kill the majority of the creatures the Mire birthed.

More empty cabins stood in the misted, damp area. Solas lit them on fire from afar once it was determined none of them had any form of life within. Only the dead roused within. There were more papers that talked about children, but none of the bodies that shambled about were children. The Mire had taken them.

Aslaug would have to make an altar for the Mire gods for appeasement and dedicate a song to the dead, wherever their spirits had wandered or departed to.

The god-mark in her left hand glowed. “A tear’s nearby,” Aslaug declared. Blackwall looked grim by the light of the god-fire of the last beacon. Sera huffed wetly in the rain.

With Solas acting as her eyes in the dark, Aslaug led the way. She followed the invisible thread that tugged on her hand and the roots of her very being, to the place where the Lady was torn. The green light ahead was enough that she let go of Solas’s shoulder to walk ahead. A figure stood vigil at the tear silently.

She stopped suddenly enough that Sera nearly ran into her back. “Oi, what gives?”

Aslaug ignored her and drew her glaive. “Hark, Avvar! Say your name,” she bellowed.

The tall man turned to her, warhammer draped over his shoulder. Thick blue cloth, leather straps, and gray-white furs only made him seem larger. He was armed and didn’t bother hiding it, but he was relaxed. “Another Avvar. I’m Sky Watcher, shaman to the Lady of the Skies. Amund. And you, or have the lowlands sapped you of your manners?”

“Inquisition. God-marked. Aslaug Gunhilddotten,” she greeted warily. She saw the wear and tear of battle on him. Sky Watcher, a shaman dedicated to the Lady but not magic-blooded, she felt nothing of the sort when she stretched out to feel at his edges.

“Hm.” He nodded. “Heard about you, Herald. They say you follow in the burning woman’s footsteps, carrying you to her silent god. I thought that meant I’d see you looking like a Fereldan.” He looked her up and down, judging her. “And yet I see an Avvar. Are you?”

Aslaug raised her chin, unafraid. “Always. I am winter from the mountains.”

Sky Watcher nodded briefly, appeased. His grip on his warhammer relaxed and his gaze fell to the god-mark on her left hand. “The brat’s bait worked.”

She pursed her lips. “Your Hand of Korth? I seek his head. He took our soldiers.”

Sky Watcher put up a placating hand. “I’ve no quarrel with yours, Herald. He’s a foul cretin. We were meant to be here to fight Tevinters stalking our lands and our summer camp. He got feisty with your soldiers. Yours killed a great deal more than he expected, I think.”

She scowled, unable to stop the snarl. “And he took them captive.”

“He wished to draw you out. I cannot say it didn’t work, shameful as it is.”

“Where is he?” She demanded, stepping closer although she kept her glaive pointed down.

“In a crumbling fortress that was once ours. No longer. The Mire has claimed it, as it does with everything. The gods here have eaten those that dwelled here before. It happened after the lowlands erupted in war, I think. They came here looking for peace. They found it eternal.” He turned from her to the tear. “A strange thing. The Lady is wounded, and the warnings she writes in the bird flocks speak of more danger, but I cannot tell if it is because of what may happen or what has.”

Aslaug came up to his side. “Both, maybe. She was wounded greatly. We are hunting those that did it.”

Sky Watcher turned slightly to eye her. “You’d bring her justice?”

She gave a hard look. “I intend to be her justice.”

Sky Watcher appraised her. “Show me. I’ve heard you heal her hurts. Do it now.”

The tear behind them glowed with an ethereal light, undulating in the air like an eel in water. It didn’t crackle or respond as if it were aware. It was closed, as once the Great Wound had been.

She reached out, hooked and tore it open.

A god of wrath roared its challenge but Sky Watcher met it immediately, calling out a battle chant and flinging his considerable self with his warhammer raised over his head to slam into the furious god. Aslaug heard the horrid screech of a terror god and found Solas at her elbow, bolstering her with a firm expression.

Solas’s fire - smoke and starlight and faraway things she hadn’t ever dreamed of - rose from the ground. The dead that the tear summoned fell quickly, mostly between Solas’s fast spellwork and Sera’s arrows. Sky Watcher and Blackwall had ended up back to back at one point, sandwiched between twin wrathful gods. They were all preoccupied in the fighting.

Aslaug met the terror god head on, fighting it with shield and glaive, cold and storm. “Aslaug No One’s Daughter of Nowhere.” It screamed at her, clawing at her and catching her shield with its talons. “Aslaug No One’s Daughter of Nowhere,” it chanted, over and over. She shivered and nearly quailed at the sound of its voice, glass on steel. She chanted, trying to find her courage and not allow the terror god a foothold within her. She called for help in the language of her ancestors and reached out to any god that might heed her prayer.

A sigh tickled her ear, a hand on her shoulder and the smell of the Frostback Basin in summer pushed out the Mire. Aslaug nearly bit her tongue. The god pressed closer, urging her onward to finish the battle and find her people. Her glaive found the heart of the terror god and it fell to its knees, finally silent, as it was ripped away from the world. “ _Vega, vega, vega, sút-dotten_.” She felt the impression of approval.

Aslaug hummed beneath her breath to find the rhythm of the battle, calling to mind the strength of the god that had found her. Her mouth formed words taught to her before she ever had a teacher, magic welled in the bottom of her being and up like a vessel overflowing - she felt a reaction from the land of dreams, such a small movement like grass rippling in a breeze, but it was something and she filled with something like affection, something like love. It was the first time she’d been down here that a god had responded to her, had bothered to listen.

Even in this place that claimed the living and made the dead, with its corrupt gods and eternal gloom, there were gods that listened and heard. She had been heard. For the first time since she’d come down to the lowlands, she’d been heard. Truly heard. And it had spoken to her, given her comfort in her time of need.

A smile crept over her face.

A final wrench and Aslaug shut the wound, sealing all the gods pressing in from the other side away.

Sky Watcher slammed his fist to his chest twice. “Well met, Aslaug God-marked. Avvar to the bone; it is right that the Lady marked you.”

She looked down at her hand. “I don’t know what god marked me.”

He hummed solemnly. “Best find out soon. Gods can be fickle.” He snorted. “I’ll find your camp and see if I can’t help. Hunt well, God-marked.”

“Our camp?” Blackwall asked, flinging black blood from his blade before sheathing it.

“Aye. I’ll throw my lot in with your Inquisition until the Lady is healed in full. I had doubts. Now I don’t. An Avvar at the head of it feels right. And I’d rather be of use to the Lady instead of down in this place serving the thane’s idiot son.” Sky Watcher gave a curt farewell nod before walking in the footsteps they’d left. They watched until the darkness swallowed him.

Solas blinked. “That was...brief. But well done.”

Aslaug was buoyed enough by the presence of the god, close but not nearly as close as she was used to in Lurkerhold, that she laughed at Solas. Her laugh wasn’t as boisterous as it usually was, but she couldn’t feel the claws of the terror god in her chest any longer. “We aren’t a complicated people, Solas. Give us a question, we answer it. Show us a solution, we’re satisfied.”

“I suppose,” he said and gave her a long, odd look.

“Can we hurry to this fortress and get our men back? I think my hose has actually dissolved in all this rain,” Blackwall muttered.

Aslaug took Solas’s shoulder in one hand. “ _Du er den fell gata_.” She hoped the god stayed. She hoped it would find her worth enough to venture closer.

Solas regarded her curiously but he led on in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex entry “Havardir” (non-canon)
> 
> Havardir, a nature-god of storms, who some Holds believe is the guardian of the Lady of the Skies. He supposedly takes the form of a great hound in the sky; his fur is made from the clouds, his growls are thunder and the lightning is meant to be his teeth. He is mostly seen as a nature god, and neither corrupt or kind - he exists because storms exist. 
> 
> Codex entry “Avvar nature magic” (non-canon, canon)
> 
> The Avvar are naturally suited for low temperatures and are quite adaptable. However, they are weak against heat and are not known for being talented at fire-magic beyond the common household applications. 
> 
> Codex entry “Avvar idiom” (non-canon) 
> 
> Above, Aslaug referred to herself as “I am winter from the mountains”, an Avvar idiom stating that no matter where the speaker is at the time, they are Avvar and they belong to the mountains. Its exact meaning does depend on the context in which it is spoken, however. 
> 
> Codex entry “No One’s Daughter of Nowhere” (non-canon) 
> 
> The terror demon preyed on Aslaug’s fears, here, and within Avvar society, being exiled or banished from a Hold means being stripped of your father or mother name as well as your Hold. No other Hold will take you if this happens, and is considered worse than death because the Lady of the Skies will not take an Avvar this has happened to, and Korth will not care for their bones. It means to wander the world forever, alone and lost and forgotten.


	13. fen dri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of action, insight for Aslaug and Solas, sad things about a sad place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heita - to pray to
> 
> Thank you for reviewing, love all of you, you're all so good to me and this fic.

It started with a voice.

Aslaug barely heard it, but judging by the way Solas stiffened beneath her hand and Sera came to a complete stop, their elf companions heard it clearly.

It sounded faint and faraway. There was something in the air, like the sizzle before a storm or an omen that raised the fine hairs on one’s body that made Aslaug slow her steps, hand still clenched over the rise of Solas’s shoulder. The voice continued too softly for her to make out what it said.

Solas had slowed but never stopped and urged Sera to do the same. “Do not stop. Do not listen, da’len.”

“But - I can hear what he’s saying. It’s a kid, innit?” Sera asked in a panicked sort of voice. “It’s coming from the water.” Her anxiety rocketed skyward.

Blackwall gruffly reassured her. “Then we don’t go in the water, Sera. It’s alright.”

Aslaug felt a shiver run down her spine, threatening to quake her knees. “The children of the Mire.” An ache twisted at her breast, a living thing trying to pry its way from beneath her skin.

Solas said nothing and she couldn’t make out his facial expression in the dark. The voice followed them, and eventually so did others, high and youthful, and eerie in such a depressing place.

_Across the stream,_

_Where we dream,_

_There, there, there she is._

Solas had a grim epiphany. “They are leading us to Widris.”

The voices came from one direction, but bounced off the rock faces that towered over them. The water of the Mire swallowed all other sound. Aslaug made the connection before the others, accustomed to the subtle, unearthly wishes of gods. “She gave them to the gods. She - she bound those gods to the beacons.”

“Friggin’ what? She gave them to the demons? Like, to eat?” Sera snapped. “I thought they died cuz they were sick. You said they were sick. _You said_ , baldy.”

“There are many ways to bind a spirit. Or create a demon,” Solas murmured softly.

“Sweet Maker above,” Blackwall swore.

Solas remained silent.

The ground became softer the further they were invited in. They sank nearly to their ankles. It made Aslaug unsure if she wanted to weep or rage at this ‘Widris’. The ground felt like a burial mound. Widris had turned the Mire, a wetland of murk and despair, into a graveyard. Whether or not it was a grave before her intervention didn’t matter. She had willingly offered the lives of children to bind gods and add to her own power, and used their suffering to feed the cycle.

She would die. And she would not die well. Aslaug knew she wasn’t alone in that opinion. Solas, augur and voice of reason and patience, wanted her death lain at his feet like an offering. She’d gleaned that much from his voice and the tense, angry lines of his body.

Children. Widris had used children.

_O’er the hill,_

_Where the thrush does trill,_

_Here, here, my dear love is_.

The voices were louder, twittering like small songbirds that had no place in the Mire. They led them deeper to a series of arching rocks that guarded a grotto. A circle of rocks hid small bones, and the scent of decay was thick enough that she could taste it. Across the way, a fissure was briefly illuminated in green ghost-lights.

The children had stopped singing.

The moon broke through the clouds overhead although the rain continued to fall. Aslaug reluctantly released Solas’s shoulder when he glanced over at her. “I know we must find the soldiers. But this mage is dangerous, and wildly unstable. She has already done too much harm. She must be stopped before she does more.” Solas’s face looked pinched, pained, and he was trying to prevent himself from showing more grief. He was a soft heart, Aslaug thought just a little fondly.

“She dies where she let the rest of them die,” Aslaug reassured him.

“Make her hurt like she made them hurt,” Sera hissed from behind, eyes suspiciously moist and bow drawn taut. Blackwall’s eyes were narrowed in his fury.

Child death was not something Aslaug welcomed, but it wasn’t unheard of in the Holds. Darkspawn, animals, disease, hunger. All Holds knew the pain of a dead child, and the entire Hold would mourn them. But they at least knew when to mourn them. Those little bones in the center of the grotto were theirs. Aslaug would collect them and give them back to the earth, to Korth, to whatever god they believed and wanted to take them. She would make a place for offerings and pray to any kind god to guide them where they needed to be.

The fissure was narrow enough to force them to go in single file, and the lights that lit their way showed water and soft earth, blood lotus swaying in the damp breeze. A campfire in the far corner on perhaps the only solid bit of earth clued them in.

Aslaug opened her mouth to insist on stealth - she had no idea how many gods or _what_ gods the mage had bound. But Sera let an arrow loose and there was the far cry of a shade being struck in a vulnerable place. A brilliant flare of magic, the smell of woodsmoke and a scream of a woman.

The mage struck back with a powerful miasma. Solas’s reactions were god-favored. He’d already cast a barrier over their group so Aslaug followed it up with a fade step tainted in the thickest ice she could muster. The mage gasped at the sudden, aggressive chill in the air and cried out when she barely had time to throw a protective barrier around herself when Aslaug raised her glaive. The weapon shrieked as it glanced off the barrier. The mage moved as she’d seen the mages at the Crossroads move, as she’d seen the small gatherings at Havenhold move during their practices. Circle-taught. Tower-kept. She artfully, gracefully, flung offensive magic not meant to sting or burn but cut and maim at Aslaug. Solas’s barrier held tight and her shield forced most of them away from her.

The mage jabbed the end of her staff in the ground and more shades, the untended wishes of long dead mortals, sprang from the earth with groans. The water stirred and more of the undead rose.

Sera’s arrows whizzed overhead and suddenly, Blackwall was at her side, using his shield as a ram to slam into the undead hard enough to shatter bones. Fire burned and Aslaug bellowed out a war cry at the mage. Her eyes, wide with panic and paranoia, went wider still and her movements became a sloppy flurry that Aslaug could predict with ease.

The butt of her glaive went through the earth easily enough and Widris gasped, breath frozen in her throat. Lowlanders burned their dead. Aslaug would not burn her, not this one.

She felt the god at her shoulder, she couldn’t make out the shape or indeed what god it was, but it emboldened her, turned her magic potent. “End her, Aslaug winter-daughter. She will do more harm alive. End her.” It breathed, a chilly breeze’s kiss upon her ear and the scent of pine in her nose. The god bid her again. Her magic reacted to its urging.

Widris screamed. The blood was freezing in her veins, making her movements sluggish and by now, the muscles in her legs were nearly unresponsive. It would have been like thousands of tiny needles trying to escape through her skin.

Aslaug hefted her glaive once more and stabbed her in the chest, just barely. She hit her sternum and pressed more of herself into Widris, overfeeding her the frigid, inhospitable storm within herself - Widris, whatever she had been before she bound gods and killed families for power, was like the Mire; dark and filled with death.

It was as she once told Cassandra. Lowlanders didn’t know what cold was, not truly.

Aslaug leaned in close enough to smell the other woman’s breath - a tonic of blood lotus and elfroot - “You will stay in this place, with all the gods you’ve bound and all the people you killed to do it.” The din of the battle behind her faded. Through the magic connected to her glaive and tied to her, she could feel the mage’s heart slowing rapidly. It was vastly uncomfortable, but necessary.

Widris made to speak but her heart stopped before any sound could come out of her mouth.

The god hanging over, around, onto, Aslaug released the grip she hadn’t realized she could distantly feel on her shoulders. The smell of pine left. The only chill left emanated from Widris’s frozen form.

The glaive’s tip stuck when she tried to pull it from Widris’s chest but with a well-placed yank, it finally slid free.

The gods and shades Widris had summoned and bound to her faded back where they came from, and only the undead continued to fight although they were easy to kill alone.

Once the last of the dead were felled, the group stopped to stare at what had become of Widris. Blackwall frowned. “Hard to believe she was responsible for the death of all the people who lived here.”

“Why?” Aslaug felt compelled to ask.

“She was...well, she was just one person. And younger than I expected.” He ran a hand over his sodden beard.

“Doesn’t matter how old someone is or how pretty. Arses like her, the real baddies, come in all shapes and sizes.” Sera spat at Widris’s feet.

“True enough,” Blackwall said. “Those bones back there, do you reckon those belonged to the children?”

“More than likely. She left them there as a beacon of despair and pain for demons to feed off of. The spirits of the children lingered near them, near her, because of what was done,” Solas said, leaning on his staff. His answer was distracted but his gaze was not. He watched Aslaug keenly.

For the first time, Aslaug was somewhat discomfited by her friend.

They left Widris in her campsite after Sera had picked it clean. The grotto was silent and still, the light-bugs that had flitted about were gone. The children didn’t sing again. Aslaug hoped they had left to wherever they were meant to.

The trail to the Avvar outpost was quiet for the most part. None of them wanted to stop to rest. The Fallow Mire was spoiled. And even if Aslaug or Blackwall were inclined for more than a rest for ten minutes at a time, Solas and Sera would not be inclined to push for more. The ground was sour, they said.

Elves smelled and heard and saw things better than humans. If they said it was sour, Aslaug didn’t want to press it. She didn’t want to know what they meant by sour, exactly, but she could hazard a guess.

The Mire drew them deeper, deeper. Past more abandoned cabins that were evidence where the desperate had tried to scrape together a life and were unsuccessful. A crumbling windmill housed formless wisps, not truly gods but unformed wishes, that darted about as aimlessly as the light-bugs. They remained still when the group passed them. They were ambivalent things, transitioning to the wishes that birthed them, unable to settle.

Aslaug went around them. She had no desire to influence them.

Solas cocked his head. “There are a great many wisps here.”

She hummed. “The Mire holds many gods, looks like. It eats all the people who come here and bring gods or birth them, and keeps the gods.”

Blackwall cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I...ask you a few questions, milady? I intend no offense, but I know precious little about your people, except for the rumors.”

Sera groaned but Aslaug snorted. “Rumors that I am a savage, bent on sacrificing everyone to my dark gods?”

The Warden’s discomfort was obvious when he coughed, “Well...yes.”

She sighed aloud even as she commended the Warden’s honesty. It didn’t speak much for her patience and perseverance if she was already this weary of handling lowlander gossip. Not to say that she could allow it to pass over her; her people were not brutish savages crouching in caves and she wouldn’t let people continue to believe the tales.

“What would you know, Warden Blackwall?”

“Well, your gods. They are spirits, is that right?”

“Your people call them spirits. They are our gods. It is the same, inasmuch as it matters.” She stepped over a mossy rock and avoided stirring the water.

“Does that mean you don’t believe in the Maker?”

“I do.”

There was a long pause in the conversation but Blackwall cleared his throat again, “And?”

“And what?”

“If you believe in the Maker, then why do you have all these other gods?” He asked, honestly curious.

“The Avvar believe the Maker exists. When Andraste prayed to Korth and the Lady, she received no answer. She prayed to her god, the Maker, and he answered. We believe he was a powerful god, what you call a spirit, and he wanted to make her his bride. So he did.” Aslaug used her glaive to test the ground in front of her, covered with dead twigs and a layer of bone and reeds. It held somewhat, so she stepped lightly and tapped it after she did so. The others were careful around it.

“You think the Maker is just another spirit, or a demon?” He spluttered. “Then what about Andraste? What about Maferath, Andraste’s mortal husband? He was an Avvar chieftain and gave Andraste to Tevinter in exchange for Ferelden.”

“What I know of your god, is that he is powerful because many, many people believe in him. As to whether he is a good god or a corrupt one, I do not know. _Maferath_ gave Andraste to Tevinter because he wanted to end the war, and your people speak of it that he did so out of greed and jealousy. The Avvar tell it differently. But everyone remembers history differently.” She had forgotten how good it was to speak of her people, of their history, of their culture without the condescending attachment that her people, that she, was lesser. Of late, she had only been filling her head with lowlander knowledge and history, trying to learn their letters properly, and there hadn’t been much time for her to speak of the Avvar positively and at length.

“What do your people say about Maferath?” His questions were valid, at least, even if it didn’t take a hound's nose to smell his doubt.

“That he was a good leader, but he was a petty man. He was jealous that a god chose Andraste to his bride. A mortal cannot compete with a god, and even if Andraste had chosen not to be her Maker’s bride, it could have turned out badly for them anyway. Gods can be...unpredictable. Maferath’s jealousy was part of it, we know. But towards the end, Tevinter was overwhelming us. Maferath had to. It was what he was destined for, in order to end the war, Andraste had to die and he had to lead her to it. Lead her to her god one last time, even though her Maker would forever scorn him and no god would favor him in death.” Aslaug wished Varric was here. A proper skald could tell it better than she.

“He had to kill her, or let Tevinters kill her so it would end the war but he wouldn’t be forgiven for it?” Blackwall was stumped. “Who let him believe that?”

“Her Maker,” Aslaug said. “Maferath was necessary in only this. He fulfilled it, because her god demanded it. Maferath was her husband only in words. In all else, she belonged to her god.”

“If I recall correctly, Maferath and Andraste had two children who were hidden from public view,” Solas said, intervening in the conversation. He looked equal parts disturbed and fascinated. Sera was bringing up the rear and obviously ignoring all of them.

Aslaug nodded. She could see the rise of the outpost through the thinning mist. “She had two daughters,” she confirmed. “They were not Maferath’s.”

“Whose were they, then? There are stories, journal writings, poems, about Maferath’s concubine giving him children, but Andraste did give him two children. They were only hidden to protect them,” Blackwall insisted.

“Maferath’s concubine gave him three sons. His line continued with her. Andraste’s daughters were not from her _mortal_ husband.” Aslaug adjusted her shield strap and lifted her glaive. She could see movement in the mist, the undead clamoring to reach the outpost.

Before Blackwall or Solas could say anything, Sera swore. “Awh, look at all of them! Frig that, just run through them! I’ll run out of arrows before we even make a dent in all them.” She pointed ahead. “Dead people everywhere!”

Aslaug huffed out a long exhale and sprinted headlong, following Sera’s advice.

Sera vaulted in the air, twisting at impossible angles to avoid the bulk of the crowd and landed in front of the gates, vanishing into stealth. She began firing arrows at the undead they attracted and provided covering fire. Aslaug was surprised and impressed. She hadn’t realized Sera was quite so skilled.

Up the stone steps, she recognized her own kind. Avvar archers and axe-wielders stalking around a campfire, their hoods drawn over their face with war paint running down their furs. Her own war paint was smeared with dirt and blood and rain. Sera let loose a volley of arrows - she killed one of the arches outright and wounded two of the axe-wielders. The other archer let out a bellow of fury and flung a hunting knife in Sera’s direction. It missed but was close enough to make her curse.

Blackwall whistled and lifted his shield. Solas flung magic at them quickly, blinding them and Aslaug slit the throat of the nearest one.

The archer tried retreating to call out a warning to what was presumably the main body but Blackwall’s blade ended her. The undead were gaining on them steadily.

Sera bounded up the wooden stairs and found a control lever. The heavy black gate dropped behind them and blocked the undead that had followed. The gate up ahead lifted.

“The Hand of Korth will be up ahead,” Aslaug said and shook herself, rolled her shoulders.

“Do you...know him?” Blackwall asked hesitantly.

She gave him a dry look. “Do you know all the Wardens in your order?”

He chuckled. “Fair enough.”

“Whatever else, he needs to die. If his people wish to leave him, let them do so. The Inquisition could use more.” To say nothing of how nice it would be to have a piece of home with her. There was no guarantee that Leliana’s mysterious messenger would be able to convince some of the Avvar to follow the Inquisition closely.

“You don’t wish to take him prisoner?” Blackwall asked, he eyed her doubtfully.

Without looking at him, and continuing to ascend the steps, feeling her heart beat a war chant in her chest. “Avvar aren’t prisoners.”

The Hand of Korth was waiting for them. His enormous greataxe was slung across his shoulders. He pointed at her. “Herald! Come meet your god!” His archer were spread out behind him, bows drawn with arrows at the ready and several people wielding axes were prepared for them.

“She’s Avvar!” One of his people exclaimed.

The Hand of Korth jumped down from his spot at the top of the steps to reveal a Chasind seat. He tossed his head goat’s horns looking at once vicious and ridiculous in the night. “I see no Avvar. Just a bitch begging at the feet of her lowland masters for scraps. I know you, Herald. Forsook your Hold and obey the burning woman’s god, blind and stupid.” The greataxe was lifted over his head. “I’ll offer your corpse to my gods and see what your lowlander god thinks of that.”

Aslaug hefted her glaive and inhaled. Regardless of what this idiot did and said, he was Avvar and would bring battle-honor to her and to Havenhold. “You who will return as bones to Korth, your soul given to the Lady, see your father’s father and your mother’s mother, may you die well,” she offered.

The Hand of Korth did not return the prayer. He flung himself across the battlefield and landed before her with a loud thud, axe flying through the air and aimed at her neck. Aslaug crouched down immediately and felt the wind slice above her with the force of the swing. Blackwall cursed and moved to meet the Hand’s next move, Sera darted away in shadow and smoke, and Solas summoned fire and lightning and a twist of the land of dreams that made her feel as if she was on a boat during bad weather.

One of the close combatants the Hand of Korth brought screamed as he was burned alive, before a fist, veiled and ethereal as the land of dreams came down on the other one, smashing him into the stone heavily.

An archer screamed as an arrow made its way to her midsection, then her throat. Another caught an arrow lit on fire.

The Hand of Korth pushed Blackwall back, beating at his shield mindlessly with the butt of his axe and his feet, finally kicking the older warrior off balance with a bellow before he turned on Aslaug.

Her frost magic would do next to nothing to him - she couldn’t summon ice great enough to defeat an Avvar with it. She was left with her glaive and shield and storm magic.

She hummed. She hummed to, and about, Havardir and let the battle rhythm take her. The Hand of Korth was immensely powerful, his broad chest and massive shoulders allowed him to swing from his hips but this made him slower. She cut him several times with her glaive but it did little to him. She felt the twinges from the land of dreams, sparking on her skin and in her blood with wild magic. This would be difficult. The Hand of Korth had the favor of a god.

A god may have helped her earlier in the Mire but she was unsure if it chose to remain with her. It was flighty and seemed prone to wander. She couldn’t feel it with her now, although it could be that it chose to watch her for now.

The god that clung to the Hand of Korth misdirected the worst of her glaive’s damage and seemed to whisper to him once Blackwall was on his feet; an extra pair of eyes and ears.

Her voice unlocked and she sang loud enough to be audible. An earnest wish, dedicating the battle to the god that heard her, that allowed her magic to take from it freely. The language of her people was more or less straightforward, but there was a certain primitive poetry to the meaning of their words. It would never be as whole when it was translated in common. The barest bones of her song was about devoted love, the love a mortal granted to a god simply for existing. She praised its formless existence, singing of how it ousted the riches beneath the mountains that the stone-brothers mined for.

Her next hit struck the Hand of Korth in his hip. Blackwall hit him in his lower back with his shield and pressed him harder on Aslaug’s glaive.

She felt it as she felt it before and she shuddered with the feeling. The god wrapped around her, chilled her blood and it smelled of the Frostbacks so much it ached. The Hand of Korth made a noise of pain and tried to move away but Aslaug sent a bolt through her glaive and he gasped, back arching. Blackwall’s blade stuck him through his ribs with a wet gurgle.

A sound like a sigh next to her ear came when she’d stopped singing, using her shield to guard her glaive arm from the Hand of Korth’s greataxe, swaying drunkenly in his hand. “ _Heita, heita, heita._ Pray to me. Sing a song about me,” it breathed.

Sweat beaded at her temples and her upper lip, her back ached and her muscles strained from holding the great Avvar in place with Blackwall as they both tried to finish him. Her breath was nearly gone from her but she hummed and softly sang the words.

The Hand of Korth’s god finally failed him. She felt it splinter beneath her magic and glaive, felt the god hanging onto her flesh drive it from the mortal world. She felt his god die. The god that clung to her surged upon its death.

Her glaive sunk deep into his ribs, twisted into his heart and his mouth opened without sound.

He fell to his knees and sunk to the side.

Blackwall pulled his sword from his body with a shake of his head. “Sorry bastard.”

Sera and Solas stood before two archers and a hunter, all on their knees before the elves. Their weapons were laid aside.

Aslaug plucked the key off of the Hand of Korth’s neck and ignored them.

“They’re in that back door,” one of the Avvar said. He sounded very young.

She unlocked the door and saw Inquisition soldiers staring back at her. “Herald.” The nearest one breathed. “You came for us.” Disbelieving adoration, alien and strange, shone in his eyes. “I told them you would. I knew you would.”

The other soldiers behind him smiled at her. “Herald.”

She dipped her head. “Do you need help back to camp?”

“No. We’ve got wounded, but we’ll patch them up and send up a signal for an escort in a bit. Thank you for coming for us,” the same soldier responded.

She smiled awkwardly, unsure how to respond to them, and nodded before turning her attention to the Avvar on their knees.

“Your god protects you, Herald,” one of the archers said. His war paint, a slash of red across his face and dotted in black was smeared.

“My name is Aslaug Gundhilddotten of the Inquisition.” She wondered when exactly it became habit to say that instead of 'O Lurkerhold'. “You followed the Hand of Korth to claim my head for your gods. You kidnapped my soldiers, my people. Why shouldn’t I bleed the blood-price from you lot?” She wouldn’t; the oldest among them looked to be fifteen. But they couldn’t see her as soft, they already considered her a lowlander and the thought hurt. It lanced through her heart to be seen as so different from her own people so quickly.

“For glory,” the young one said quickly. “We wanted legend-marks. He promised them. He said we had the favor of the gods.”

“And who named him the Hand of Korth?” she asked flatly.

The three young ones looked at each other. “We...don’t know.”

“I think he did,” the only girl said. “His father never gave him a legend-mark.”

“His father is thane of your Hold?” Aslaug asked. A thane would have to keep watch of his Hold’s young. A father wouldn’t spoil a child in such a way. Disgust and rage rose in equal measure.

“Yes, but he wanted to make a new Hold, after he killed you,” the hunter said and looked beyond her at the Hand of Korth’s body. “That won’t happen.”

“You left your Hold,” she stated. She could use this, work with this. Only three bodies, less than she wanted, but more than before. “You could come to the Inquisition. To Havenhold.”

“You have a Hold?” The girl asked, blue war paint highlighting her eyes. Aslaug nodded. The girl looked from her, to Solas and Sera, to Blackwall and back. “Havenhold,” she said the name out loud, tasting the word in her mouth. “What does the Inquisition do? We were told you were spreading word of the burning woman’s god.”

“We are looking for the one who wounded the Lady of the Skies. And we mean to make him pay the blood-price.” The youngsters looked interested. “And I am offering you to join Havenhold.”

“We accept,” the hunter said immediately. “My knife, my bow, my blade for Havenhold.” He looked expectantly at his peers. They made similar oaths, not as quickly but none were reluctant.

She leveled her glaive at the hunter first. “And am I expecting the same loyalty you showed your last Hold?” Hold desertion wasn’t uncommon, often seen in younger people who wanted to make new Holds, but these ones had left to follow a trail of false glory when they had been sent to do a specific task. She didn’t want fickleness in her ranks.

“The thane, Movran the Under, was growing older. The Hand of Korth wanted different things for the Hold, new things. He sent us out here to hunt Tevinters but that was only to get us out of the way.” The hunter paused and added with honesty, “And I don’t want to die.”

Aslaug clucked her tongue. She wasn’t sure if she could trust them, but Avvar made poor spies. “You’ll come to Havenhold. We’ll find you a place. For now.” She wouldn’t promise anything unless she saw something worthy of a promise. She also couldn't expect such young warriors to stay with Havenhold forever - they would want to undoubtedly find a fully Avvar Hold eventually. For now the Inquisition needed all the help they could get.

The trio collected their weapons slowly and settled in a far corner to watch the strange group they had joined.

“We should stay and catch our breath. The Inquisition soldiers are weak from captivity. Not to mention the mob of undead at the gates,” Solas advised, leaning on his staff. He looked slightly short of breath. They all did. Aslaug wasn’t as drained as they were because of the god that had given her its strength, relieving her of her weaknesses.

“Alright,” she agreed. “I’ll send out a flare.”

“And when you are able, Aslaug, I need to discuss something of importance with you.” Solas straightened, focused and intent as before. She nodded slowly.

Out of a waterproof pouch, she withdrew an oblong object with a wick at the end. Something of fire powder and color, something taken from the famed qunari black powder but not nearly as deadly.

She lit the end of the wick with a spark of fire summoned at the tips of her fingers and held it up to the sky. The top popped off and the inside shot out of its thick casing, away from her hand to shoot up before splintering into varying shades of red that colored the clouds above. 

A war horn sounded out across the Mire. The Inquisition was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex entry “Avvar & the tale of Maferath” (da wiki, non-canon)
> 
> The Avvar people’s complex relationship with Andraste also extends to Maferath, and to their belief of what the Maker is and meant to both. Part of Maferath’s tale was actually included in the Chant of Light and but was later stricken from it due to its controversy. Some verses can still be found preserved in the Wending Wood.


	14. fen por

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god we're almost out. hopefully i haven't bored you all to death about the fallow mire and fight scenes yet. the only reason i've been updating so quickly is because i originally wrote the fallow mire out to be one chapter. it was too big so i cut it up. the next update will be back to our mostly/almost scheduled programming. 
> 
> i'm not entirely confident about this chapter so I apologize if it isn't up to expectations.
> 
> avvar number system courtesy of the lexicon being developed by fenxshiral

There was a palpable tension in the air around Solas. He had glanced her way once and there was a fire in his eyes, a level of pique she had never been on the receiving end of from him.

She wasn’t unused to making people angry at her, especially in the lowlands since her time of self-imposed banishment had begun, but Solas had yet to be actually angry at her about anything. It was odd, to be cautious of him, to be wary of speaking to one of the only people who made her feel at ease down in these lands.

The Inquisition had arrived, outfitted in armor and equipped with slow moving druffalo that were more adept at navigating the narrow places of the Mire. Harts would have been better, but they seemed to be in short supply. Scoutmaster Harding rode up, seated on a tame bronto. She smiled. “The soldiers are grateful for you timely rescue, Your Worship. We’ll see to them and try make this place a little more hospitable. No one will actually want to be stationed here, but we can’t deny resources when they show up at our feet. We’ll drag the bodies out and try to clean up as best as we can. By your leave.” She tilted her head and slid from her snorting mount to join her men.

The captive soldiers were surrounded by healers; magic-blooded and otherwise, and beyond in the entrance of the outpost, she saw Sky Watcher observing. He stalked forward and laid a hand on one of the healers, ushering her out of the way. He set his warhammer down and pulled a pouch open from his side. She heard him murmuring a medicine prayer. With a stone pestle and a round, bone mortar, he ground herbs and water for a paste.

The soldier he tended to looked nervous, but relaxed enough to allow the shaman to apply it. He clucked his tongue. “Easy, easy, cub. It’ll sting, but it’s chasing out the bad blood you’ve got there.” He patted the young man’s head with a heavy hand.

“Wha-what about leeches? Isn’t that what leeches are for?”

Sky Watcher snorted. “Superstition. Leeches don’t do anything but drink and take. For infections, you need coneflower and elfroot. Or maggots, if your flesh is rotting.”

“Please don’t put maggots on me, messere.”

Sky Watcher roared in laughter. “No maggots for you yet, boy. Not yet. Keep this paste on your leg and don’t go wandering in the dead waters and you won’t need them.”

Blackwall was seated next to the three young Avvar Aslaug had recruited and he spoke to them in a low, serious tone. All three watched him with avid interest. Wardens always held the respect of the mountain people. Sera was crouched behind Blackwall, cheek atop her fist while she eavesdropped. Aslaug watched in amusement when she picked her nose and flung whatever she found at the hunter.

There was nothing else to do but face Solas.

He was already waiting outside for her.

The pinched line between his brows deepened and his frown wrinkled the corners of his mouth. His arms were folded behind him, back straight and legs together. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” His voice carried an edge like a blade. He glowered at her.

Aslaug stopped a few feet from him. “What do you think I’ve done?”

“You summoned a spirit to aid you in battle. Do you have any idea - _any_ \- how dangerous that is to do in the company we travel with? You are lucky Madame Vivienne or Cassandra were not with us.” He moved fluidly, stalked a few steps away before turning back to her. “I realize you come from a different culture that adheres to different rules, but you must obey the ones here now that you are a part of the _lowlands_.”

Aslaug jerked. His snappish tone was one thing; his rebuke of her was not unfounded - she had been careless in hindsight, she could see that now - but she would not be spoken to as if she were a child or simple or _mocked_. “I made a mistake,” she agreed, voice low. “But do not speak to me as if I am a girl who doesn’t know what she does.”

Solas narrowed his eyes, cocked his head and approached, one foot in front of the other, hips kept straight, back long. “I think it is appropriate, considering what you did. Blackwall and Sera wouldn’t have taken kindly to it, if they knew what to look for. It is fortunate that neither Cassandra nor Vivienne were here to witness it. If they did, I have little doubt they would investigate and insist on forcing limitations on you.” He inhaled and let out a long exhale, closing his eyes before his gaze slid to the side. “Summoning a spirit would be, to them, the equivalent of allowing one a mortal foothold and becoming an abomination. Particularly since they lay the blame on the mage from Kirkwall.”

Aslaug hissed through her teeth. “I summoned and bound nothing. I - _we_ do not bind gods. I needed help and it offered it freely. There was no price to be paid.

His jaw clenched. “And you think that is not how demons lure people in? Those that do this are the most intelligent of their kind and have been at the game for a long time. You underestimate it.”

“It came to me, after the terror god told me my fears and told me what fate awaited me, what any fate would await any of the Alamarri, of the Chasind, of the Avvar that came down to the lowlands. The second one I faced could smell my fear and saw what it was and used it against me. Never have I been faced with a terror god so cruel. I was _afraid_.” Her voice trembled, out of shame, out of the echo of the fear, and out of anger. “Then this god spoke to me. Comforted me and told me I had to fight. The fear was gone. I won the fight. It told me to end Widris, as we already were going to, and it lent me its strength. Then again with the Hand of Korth. If it hadn’t aided me against him, Blackwall or I may have fallen. _He_ had the favor of a god.” Her throat constricted, the indignity of the conversation burned her eyes and tongue.

Solas’s lips curled into the beginnings of a snarl. “That does not mean you should let it in, or let it help. You don’t understand-”

Aslaug slashed at the air with her hand. “I do know. We speak to our gods, we ask them for advice or help and we are taught by our teachers what to look for, what to avoid, and how to ask an unknown god for aid. We _do_ know. Just because we do it differently doesn’t mean we don’t.”

He exhaled through his nose harshly. “What you did was rash. Foolish.”

She tossed her hair, twisted braids and wild strands, over her shoulders. She swallowed hard. “If I were having this conversation with anyone else, I would believe that they meant that.”

He, in the middle of leaving, turned his head to look over his shoulder. “You don’t believe it coming from me?”

“I know you think I should be more careful. And you’re right. But you’re wrong when you say I don’t understand what I was doing. And I don’t believe you when you mean it is something that shouldn’t be done.” She crossed her arms. “You knew what I did because you’ve done it before, or something close. You just don’t trust anyone else with it.”

He was frozen in place for a long moment, head turned toward her, before he left without another word.

She cursed and swept her hand through her hair.

 

…

 

No one went to sleep angry in a Hold. It wasn’t done. A Hold’s walls, no matter how spacious the Hold was, wouldn’t contain it. The walls were too small, too thin, and everyone knew everything about everyone. If it was a hurtful word or a careless action it was dealt with swiftly. If it was bad enough, the thane would be involved and perhaps the augur if a test of the gods was needed.

Aslaug couldn’t fall asleep immediately after her argument with Solas.

He, apparently, had no issue with it and simply laid down beside Blackwall and pointedly turned his back to her.

She sat cross legged on her bedroll and supported her chin on her curled fists while she stared blackly in his general direction. Everyone else had fallen asleep, save for the soldiers on watch.

It was a strange thing to be expected to fall asleep and do nothing about the argument. She didn’t like this. It felt childish to ignore it. Small things could percolate until they became very real problems.

He barely glanced her way when they took their night meal, and only said a general, curt, goodnight to the group before settling away from her. Solas never slept close to Aslaug, but he rarely ever slept so far away except in the very beginning. It helped her fall asleep faster. Yurts and huts often housed extended family or close friends or even children from different families if space was tight.

She was used to the cacophony of snoring and breathing, an errant arm or leg tossed over her, a face buried in her hair. It was hard to sleep without the noise of other people, or the closeness that came with it. She had tried to nestle with Cassandra in the early days but had been immediately rebuffed. She had told her with a red blush that it wasn’t done like that, that it was incredibly improper and odd for anyone but very young children to do that.

Everyone in the lowlands chose to be far away from each other. There was no comfort to be had from other people without them thinking it was somehow sexual. They were all lonely and never realized it the way she did. But that was just her belief projecting upon them; they were comfortable with such distance. 

The young Avvar had all crowded together in a cozy pile, sleeping like pups. If she knew them better and trusted them, she would have joined them. Instead, she was left with several feet of space all around her, glaring at Solas’s back and enviously eyeing the heap in the corner.

Something nudged her shoulder. She looked up and saw Sky Watcher. “Budge over, cub.” He sank next to her bedroll and a thick bundle of furs dropped down beside her. He said nothing for a long moment, just arranged his fur bundle to overlap her bedroll. “They’d rather freeze than just nestle up together. It’s like a band of twelve year olds, too big for their breeches.” Sky Watcher drank from his bone mortar filled with a heavy dark tea that he offered to her. She drank deeply. “They are a strange people,” he mused aloud. “Finish that. You look like death spat you back out.” He set his headdress to the side next to his hammer and with a loud groan sank to his back, half of her grass-stuffed pillow under his neck.

Aslaug finished off the tea, could taste the herbs and roots used in it and left his mortar next to his other belongings before wriggling at his side. Body heat poured off of him nearly uncomfortably with all of her leathers and furs on but it was something she’d been without for so long she ignored the discomfort it brought. His breath rattled through his chest like a bear’s. Aslaug claimed the unused end of her pillow and closed her eyes, arm to arm and leg to leg with a man she had known for less than a day, instead of the people she called friends.

Sleep came quickly.

It was snowing. The ground was white and crunched loudly beneath her footsteps and the scent of pine and forest and all the wild things left in the world filled her senses. The sky overhead was white and streaked in gray. There was no Great Wound.

Aslaug held out her hands and touched the winter grasses that grew through the harsh weather as she walked along slowly. She wore her leathers and corded vest, the boots she’d made from wyvern hide and snoufleur fur, the heavy furs that had come from an ice wolf with a fennec fox hood; the last thing her mother had sewn for her. She'd rarely had such clear dreams. She wondered if the god-mark made it different.

The sun was a pale, colorless disk overhead. And the breeze carried a confusing mix of forest and moss and salt and sea.

A pair of eyes watched her closely, shrouded in mist and cloud. She knew that feeling. “Are you the god that protected me?”

The amorphous form shifted and she heard steps in the packed snow approach her. “Yes, sút-dotten. I heard you before, but I didn’t come. Then I heard you again in the Mire after the terror told you what you feared. I listened that time.”

She stepped closer, slowly, head bowed and eyes lowered in respect. “You are the first god to have heard me since I came down here - I thought...I thought I was left alone.”

“Aslaug No One’s Daughter of Nowhere,” it said plainly, voice varying between shades of masculine and feminine. “Lost and forgotten.”

“Yes,” her breath plumed in front of her. “It’s good to see I’m not.”

“You never were. You are here for a purpose. Your gods haven’t abandoned you,” it soothed. “But they belong to the Frostbacks and to Lurkerhold. To wish them down here would be folly. They would be changed.”

She dipped her head. “Yes. My apologies. I never thought...it doesn’t matter. I was being selfish.”

“It is expected. You feel unmoored here.” She saw the impression of a mouth in the mist that made its body, and lips and sharp teeth.

“What are you? I don’t know what offerings to give you.”

“You already gave them.” Its eyes had defined color now, black as pitch. “You prayed to me, sang and fought.”

A battle-god. “Valor? Courage? Willfulness?” She guessed blindly.

The impression of the smile came out more defined and its teeth looked sharper. “Threading a needle, aiming an arrow, prayer and meditation. They all require focus.” Its attention turned to its left. “You have a visitor, sút-dotten.” The breeze carried it away soundlessly and Aslaug saw what it had meant. That he had so effortlessly invaded her dream didn't surprise her, although she hadn't forgotten the disgrace he had made her feel so she didn't greet him and just stared at him stonily. Only her augur had been capable of finding someone in their dreams, aided by his god, so she wasn't surprised Solas was capable of such a feat.

He stood not too far off, arms at his sides and a vague look of disapproval on his face. Aslaug lifted her chin in defiance. Solas let out a heavy breath. His head turned one way, then another and he seemed to deflate. “I wished to apologize for the way I acted earlier. I did what I had once reprimanded your advisors for doing and you deserve better.”

Aslaug blinked. He acknowledged his error and sought forgiveness of his own accord. How could she respond in any other way? “You only need apologize for your tone, not your words. You spoke the truth. I was careless. It is second nature to me and I was reckless when I found out that a god was listening to me. I should apologize, accusing you the way I did. You didn’t do anything to deserve that.” Solas shook his head, waved her apology away.  

The silence that followed was brief but awkward. “If I may ask, what did the terror demon say to you that caused you such distress? I noticed you began reaching out for a spirit after that.”

She grunted, “It said that they made Andraste’s water fire and they’d make it mine too. And it called me Aslaug No One’s Daughter of Nowhere.”

“No one’s daughter of nowhere? Is this about you pledging your loyalty to the Inquisition and leaving Lurkerhold?”

“Yes, and no. It’s one thing to leave a Hold for another Hold, it’s another to just _leave_ a Hold. I call it Havenhold, but it isn’t really. I’m the only one who calls it that. To have your mother-name taken from you and to be without a Hold name means you belong nowhere. It means no god will hear you, and when you die you will be alone, lost, and forgotten forever.” She fiddled with the end of her fur. “It’s been in the back of my mind the whole time I’ve been down here. When this is over and we find the bastard that wounded the Lady and I return to Lurkerhold, will I be Aslaug No One’s Daughter? I do not know. I carry an unknown god’s mark, pledged myself to lowlanders, have been given the name Herald of Andraste. I don’t know what will come of it all.”

His countenance softened. “You will not be nameless, Aslaug.”

“You cannot know that, Solas. You cannot. We are a proud people, to the point of foolishness, I admit that. I _know_ that. What I’ve done is what any Avvar worth their stone would do but that doesn’t mean it would be done without consequence. Lurkerhold may tell me I did the right thing but cast me off anyway because it was still done.”

Solas stood next to her and hesitantly laid a hand on her shoulder. His touch was light and barely there. “If what you did was right, then they must understand. Traditions cannot invalidate actions when they are taken for the right reason.”

She slumped with a heavy sigh and reached up with her opposite hand to lay over his. He didn’t pull away or stiffen, just kept his hand still beneath hers. “Tradition keeps us alive. Keeps what we were alive. If we lose what we were, we won’t know who we _are_.”

He allowed silence to drift in, his mouth slightly slack and eyes distant when he spoke. “Change is not always easy. Perhaps you are meant to be the first. But you are right. History should not be erased.” There was a layer of emotion she couldn’t completely identify with absolute certainty in his voice. Shame, and a world’s worth of weariness. He sounded incredibly ancient. She peered at him closely. He never really looked old, but he always sounded like the augurs who were close to their last winters. Old as the earth they walked until it kept them as it did their ancestors.

“Maybe. That god told me why I wasn’t answered by Lurkerhold and it made sense. I was just blinded by my own worries.” She smiled at him slightly, squeezed his knuckles. “It said it was Focus.” She laughed softly in rare self-deprecation, “I never knew what I needed until it was given to me.”

Solas didn’t quite smile but his eyes crinkled and the feeling was nonetheless conveyed. “I would like to meet it, should it appear to you again. It is rare to find spirits willing to speak to mortals here.”

Time passed differently in the land of dreams. It seemed as though they only stood side by side and watched the snow fall for moments before her eyes opened. The broken ruin was invaded by early sunlight.

Sky Watcher crouched over a large cauldron, stirring porridge and dried meat over a flickering fire. He glanced at her. “About time you woke up. Were this a proper Hold, and you not the thane, I’d have slapped your feet. It’s past waking time.”

Aslaug groaned, sat up and stretched, felt her arm pop in the socket and her back crack. Her companions were still asleep. “They sleep later in the day down here.”

Sky Watcher spooned the mixture into a bowl and pushed it at her. She could smell roasted onions in it and hurriedly began eating. “Your scoutmaster has told me I’m to stay in the Mire and help set up the camps and clear the roads. Not a task I relish, but I’m the one who’s been here the longest.” He glanced at the pile of Avvar already going about their morning grooming rituals. “Those young ones can follow you to Havenhold. They’ll drive me to madness if they stay here.”

Aslaug chewed her food, relished the taste of salt and meat and onion. At the very least Fereldan food was similar to Avvar cuisine. She had seen what Orlais thought of as food. Entirely too small and sweet. “We could use them. Scouts, definitely as hunters. Did you know they don’t eat nug down here?”

Sky Watcher eyed her. “Why not. It’s a good meat, easy and plentiful, fatty and does well in a stew or roasted.”

Aslaug thought back to what she had been told. “It’s the little hands they don’t like.” She wiggled her fingers at him.

“Stupid.”

“They don’t hunt druffalo either. They say it’s too dangerous. Or ice-fish.” She tipped the bowl back and swallowed greedily before wordlessly holding her bowl out for seconds. Sky Watcher obliged.

“How do they survive?”

“They eat a lot of turnips and potatoes. And wine,” she said sagely.

Sky Watcher was clearly disgusted and forced food on the soldiers as they woke up. “Eat. You need meat and roots and herbs. No wonder you people are always bloody cold. You don’t eat right.”

Aslaug watched it unfold in amusement. The Avvar warriors, newly of Havenhold, made their way to the pot and held out bowls for Sky Watcher to fill. One of the Inquisition soldiers tried to fill it himself but was immediately smacked with the ladle.

Sera and Blackwall made their way to the cauldron blearily and watched the goings-on. “Is that normal?” the Warden asked.

Aslaug picked onion out her teeth. “Yes.”

Sera picked up on it quickly and held out a bowl, whining about dying of hunger. Sky Watcher was pleased with her appetite after she ate three helpings.

Solas was one of the last to wake. He stretched gracefully, eyes mostly closed. The line of his body was lean, but not overmuch to the point of lankiness and the spotted sunlight coming overhead highlighted it. He was wolf in winter not yet starved. He had broad shoulders for an elf and was taller than the ones she knew or had seen as of yet. His ears were longer too. A peculiarity of his line? Perhaps his village in the north was more insular than he had let on and had isolated ancient lines. There were some Avvar who had such ancient lines, that seemed gigantic in proportion compared to most other Avvar, like Sky Watcher and the Hand of Korth. 

The barely open slits of his eyes caught hers. He looked away first, drawn to the scent of the cauldron and she busied herself by taking out her fraying braids to brush out her hair. One of the Avvar, Havgar the hunter, sidled closer and crouched down beside her with a comb in hand. She could see him in her periphery and tilted her head to allow him access to her hair.

He pulled out the tangles and wiry plant life she’d accumulated in her time in the Mire. He applied elfroot and embrium with water and shook her hair out, drying it with soft leather. She pushed him away when he tried to braid it for her. His companions watched the exchange anxiously. She thanked him silently and offered her whetstone for his blade. They calmed when he rejoined them and began edging his hunting knife.

She rebraided her hair quickly.

Solas had unsuccessfully refused Sky Watcher’s offer of food. He sat beside her with a half bowl of porridge, still looking decidedly tired. He squinted at the porridge.

She leaned over to whisper, “Not appetising?”

His lips pursed. “I am not overly fond of onions.”

“Mm. I could eat them for you if you like.” She enjoyed onions, and she knew that between Solas’s penchant for politeness and Sky Watcher’s overbearing insistence typical of a shaman, he would have to eat what was given to him.

He cast a narrow look at her. “I am not a child that needs to have food picked out of a meal.”

She raised her brows. “I happen to like onions.”

“Ah. Aslaug, may I offer you my onions?” Without waiting for a reply, he scooped out the small onions from his porridge to deposit in her empty bowl. He stirred several times to be sure there weren’t any stragglers.

Whether he always ate this way, or he didn’t care for the meal, Solas was still the slowest eater she’d ever witnessed. The times had been few and far between when she’d seen him eating. Often it was fruit or some sort of dessert that made her teeth ache just to look at.

Sky Watcher abandoned the cauldron when they scraped the bottom and he set his weapon over his shoulder. “The gods are watching, Aslaug O Havenhold. And so are the Avvar,” he said by way of farewell. He stepped out into the early mist of the morning.

Harding stepped up, wry smile on her lips. “Sorry to bother you, Your Worship but I thought this could wait until after you had a chance to wake up and eat.” She held out a small scroll branded in a wax seal. “Sister Leliana said for your eyes only.”

Aslaug set her bowl aside and took it to a solitary corner. She traced the letters slowly, carefully, reading and rereading the scroll. The message was brief, thankfully although it took her some time to completely connect the written language to its meaning. Speaking common helped, even though their letters were still alien and she didn’t remember all the proper sounds some letters made next to each other. Reading aloud would have been a horrendous chore although she could piece together the meaning in her own mind.

_We have made contact with several Avvar holds. They’ve sent representatives. They wish to speak with you. We are preparing for Redcliffe. Return to Havenhold as soon as you can._

She had several immediate thoughts. Firstly, Sister Leliana had called it Havenhold. Secondly, she had Holds respond what seemed to be positively to her request. Thirdly, Sister Leliana had not mentioned Lurkerhold by name although she knew it well. That...did not bode well.

Lastly, the end of her message seemed urgent.

She held the scroll in front of Solas, nearly arching over his seated form. “We need to go back.” He read over it briefly, serious manner seemingly unaffected by its contents.

When he nodded and handed it back to her without speaking of anything she might have missed, she felt an undeniable, small burst of pride. She was getting better. Not nearly good enough to tackle their long, complex words or entire books, but enough so she could soon begin reading missives unsupervised.

Her triumph was brief. Sister Leliana had never minced words with her before, sensitive to the fact that Aslaug preferred truth and fact in shorthand. If she hadn’t mentioned Aslaug’s Hold, she had a reason.

 _Threading a needle, aiming an arrow. Threading a needle, aiming an arrow._ The thought grounded her enough to get her moving.

“When do we leave?” Sera asked, chewing with her mouth open and stealing from Blackwall’s portion. The older man said nothing about it, but seemed to be completely fascinated by how much she ate.

“After you finish. We make for Havenhold today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex entry “Avvar living arrangements” (non-canon) 
> 
> The Avvar within a Hold live close-knit lives. Hunters bring back food for the entire Hold, people each take a turn cooking a communal meal, clothes are mended in batches, and often, separate yurts or huts house several generations of family members. The generations usually include parents, children, grandparents and unwed siblings of the parents, or great-aunts or uncles. This is done so that parents may focus on contributing more to a Hold while the grandparents take charge rearing the children. If a person has no family, they often will pair off with another household that has room to spare. Sleeping arrangements are considered primitive to outsiders; most often, there are several layers of mats, lots of fur blankets, and people sleep close together. Not just for the sake of warmth, but also developed as a crude method of protection against darkspawn raids (as well as raids from enemy Holds). It is seen as a measure of trust among the household. To sleep alone in the equivalent of being the odd man out, and choosing to sleep alone may signify dislike towards the household members. 
> 
> Codex entry “Grooming” (part 2, non-canon) 
> 
> It is common in the Avvar society to see adults grooming each other. Brushing hair, braiding, applying war paint, cleaning nails or massaging muscles, etc. This too has a great deal to do with trust. For instance, a trusted neighbor may brush hair, but not be allowed to massage shoulders whereas a friend can braid hair and give a massage, or expect to receive one. Above, Aslaug allows Havgar to brush her hair and clean it, but doesn’t allowed him to braid it for her. This signifies his place without announcing it verbally. It invites the possibility for more trust to be earned in the future, but her refusal to allow him to braid her hair lets him and the other young warriors know that they haven’t earned the right yet.


	15. goði

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there's any questions, my tumblr ask seems to be fixed and is back up, or you can ask here.

The journey back to Haven was rigorous. Slogging through the Fallow Mire and the early stretches of wetland was difficult on their mounts in the first place, but Aslaug set a relentless pace.

They were waylaid for three days in the wetlands by the great lashings of a terrible rainstorm. Their two man canopy tents shuddered beneath the assault but managed to withstand it.

She heard it as they neared Havenhold. The low, trumpeting tones of a welcoming horn.

She could see shapes in the distance. Inquisition scouts and soldiers milled around, training or speaking with one another. Her forder was encouraged into a canter and it snorted, sweat cooling in the chill.

A tall Avvar clothed in dark browns and white furs stepped forward and though his raised hood obscured some of his face, she recognized him with a jolt of joy.

Augur Hrathgur of Lurkerhold stepped forward, palms open and Aslaug felt a rush of warmth spring to her breast like a fountain. “Aslaug Gunhilddotten,” he greeted warmly, mildly, the ritual paints on his face cracked like age marks. Aslaug slid from her horse in such a rush that the poor beast side stepped in surprise. She clamped his proffered forearm tightly. “I see you’ve done your duty, that and more.”

She made a noise in the back of her throat but didn’t trust herself to speak without her voice cracking. She cleared her throat. “Leliana didn’t say Lurkerhold was coming.” She didn’t speak of her fears regarding that.

“The thane wanted to be sure it wasn’t bait, being that most of the Hold thought you were lost to us when the Lady was wounded. I had to listen for a time before the gods found you. I decided to come myself.”

“The Hold -”

Hrathgur cut her off. “My apprentice can handle it. Both the thane and I agree that if you were sending out word to the Hold for help, then it was our duty to see it through.” He frowned at her then. “No proper welcome for your spirit-guide? Tsk. I taught you from my knee, girl.”

She gave a panting laugh that sounded closer to a sob and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Augur. I give you guest-welcome. Always. Always.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Such a soft touch, you are. Weeping in front of the lowlanders over an old man.” His arms enclosed her regardless and he lifted her off her feet momentarily. One of his hands cupped the back of her head. “Our gods have spoken highly of you. It’s still good to see you for myself,” he murmured in a muted voice. He set her down and stepped back, held her upper arms. “Let me look at you.” He seemed to catalogue her appearance. “Well. You’re still Avvar. They haven’t got you wearing their ridiculous clothes have they?”

She sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her sleeve. “No.”

He grinned a bit and his attention wandered to her companions, trailing behind. “Such strange company you travel with now, Aslaug Gunhilddotten.” He cupped her cheek in a grandfatherly manner. “How far and long you have traveled, daughter of winter.”

Aslaug shook her head, unafraid to show him her eyes, wet with emotion and her voice trembled like an elderly hand when she spoke. “Too far. Too far.”

He smiled gently. “Not too far. Even these lands know winter.” He patted her cheek. “Enough of this. Come, I think your spymaster wishes to speak with you of something of import. And after, I will need to introduce you to the Holds that answered your call.”

She opened her mouth, unwilling to leave him so soon after meeting one of her people from Lurkerhold again but he sucked on his teeth. “Off with you. I’m not going anywhere.” He reached out and coaxed her forder to follow him to the stables and left her standing in front of the gates.

“Aslaug,” Solas called from behind.

She spun, eyes trailing her unshed tears. He paused abruptly. He opened his mouth and then closed it.

She wiped her eyes and cheeks and a laugh bubbled out of her chest. “I’m not Aslaug No One’s Daughter of Nowhere.”

He spoke tenderly,  “I am glad.”

One of Leliana’s people waited a short distance from them and signaled Aslaug to follow. She looked expectantly at Solas who slid from his hart, gave it a grateful scratch and allowed a stableboy to take it. He followed her to the Chantry.

 

…

 

The map on the war table had figures surrounding the small castle figurine that represented Redcliffe castle. “We don’t have enough to storm it,” Cullen said and paced a short distance. “But, we have enough men to sneak inside, as Leliana suggested. You’ll be able to take Alexius by surprise this way, although I have to stress that I am against the idea of you walking in there and handing yourself over on a platter.”

Aslaug folded her arms over her chest. Her war paint had all but smeared off during the journey. “I won’t be alone. And it’s only to distract him. I am capable of fending for myself.”

“I know, but it is risky and we cannot order you to do this. I just want to make sure you don’t feel under pressure to do this.”

“All of us are under pressure. This is for the best. We can kill Alexius and prevent his hold over Ferelden from strengthening. I’ve no wish to leave a wyvern at the gates while we search for a needle in the grass.”

Cullen chuckled. “Point taken.”

Josephine looked up. “There is the matter of gaining the templars. Ser Barris responded to us and surprisingly, so did Lord Seeker Lucius. The Lord Seeker is inviting you to negotiate at Therinfal Redoubt.”

Aslaug frowned. “The one from Orlais?”

“The same. Cassandra and Cullen have been in contact with Ser Barris, and believe him to be sincere. He is greatly worried about the Lord Seeker and his commanders. He has urged that Cassandra or Commander Cullen come to Therinfal Redoubt.”

“Cassandra is worried as well. She believes it’s out of character for the Lord Seeker to be acting like this, and frankly, I agree.” Cullen rested his hands on the pommel of his sword. “Ser Barris is a good man. He wouldn’t be going behind his commanders’ backs like this without good cause.”

“I am still not meeting them,” Aslaug said. “You and yours may feel at ease with more templars, but I do not.”

Cullen nodded. “I know. We wouldn’t be asking you to go. Cassandra has volunteered to undertake it herself. She understands your reasons for choosing to stay away. Although I still believe we should only approach one or the other. Seeking both as allies stretches us incredibly thin. Neither the mages or templars will happy to find out they are both being sought out by the Inquisition.”

Aslaug tapped a fingernail on the wood of the table. She looked to Solas, who had remained in a corner shrouded in shadow with his arms across his chest but his eyes slid to Josephine silently. Aslaug looked at her expectantly.

The Antivan woman spoke sternly. “The Breach affects everyone, man, woman or child. Mage or templar, if they wish to prove themselves as people who care about the fate of Thedas beyond their own machinations, now is the time to do so. We are giving them a chance to prove that they are more than what is being said about them. The common people blame both sides.”

Leliana strode forward. Her hands were clasped behind her back. “Cassandra is ready to move after preparations are complete, and she has requested that she take Warden Blackwall with her when she leaves. She believes that having a Warden at her side will at least provide us with some credibility. You should be aware that the Lord Seeker believes you will be riding to meet them.”

Aslaug took her eyes off the map. “I won’t.”

Leliana inclined her head. “I understand - and even approve. The history of your peoples’ shamans is not one the Order would look kindly on. However, Ser Barris is fully aware you will not be meeting them, but are instead sending Cassandra in your stead. He agreed that with your history as an apostate who uses unknown magic may...lead to contention.”

Aslaug nodded. “When do you wish us to make for Redcliffe?”

“Cassandra is leaving for Therinfal Redoubt tomorrow, with Blackwall’s assurance that will be enough time to rest. I would have suggested that you be given the same amount of time to rest and prepare, however, we have other matters here that need your attention before you can leave. As quickly as you can manage, of course. Three days is all the time I can give you to see to these matters. If you can leave sooner, the better.”

“The Avvar,” Cullen said abruptly. “These are your people. The Inquisition has little idea how to approach them in these matters. They’ve brought warriors, hunters, mages.”

“And as you suggested, King Bhelen of Orzammar has sent couriers carrying gold and weapons to trade. He was very adamant about participating in building the Inquisition.” Josephine twirled her quill.

Aslaug crossed her arms. “The dwarf-king has an eye on surface matters.”

Leliana smiled. “That he does. That has never changed.”

Aslaug raised a curious brow but the other woman didn’t speak on it further. “Commander, are you worried about my people having the run of the Hold?”

A sigh, “Less worried, more...wary. They are unpredictable.”

Aslaug barked out a short laugh at his expression. “Give them the training yard. They’ll want to hold bouts. And it’ll keep them out of your hair, Commander.”

“Didn’t you need to speak with them?” Josephine inquired politely.

“That’s what the bouts are for.”

 

…

 

Andir of Great Stag-Hold gripped Guiscard of Falconhold tightly, and it smeared the war paint across his bare chest, imprinting on Guiscard. Guiscard used his thigh, bent his knee and twisted his hips to force Andir on the ground or suffer from a twisted ankle. Andir went to the ground ungracefully.

Guiscard snaked his arms under Andir’s arms, forced his knuckles into his armpits and drove up in a harsh, abrupt manner. Andir tried to squirm away, arms over his head and his legs pinned beneath the weight of his opponent. His face was pressed into the dirt mercilessly.

A count of ten was held, and still Andir was on the ground.

The match was over and a cheer roused from the watching crowd. The Avvar bellowed the name of the winner, stomping their feet. Those from the Inquisition cheered hesitantly, quieter in their response to the outcome of the match.

Guiscard released Andir and gripped his arm to get him on his feet. Andir’s face was bright red and sweaty. Andir, in a sportsmanlike fashion, raised Guiscard’s arm over their heads with a grin. “Falconhold has borne a good son of battle!” He bellowed.

The responding cries of the Avvar watching the match were near deafening despite their small number.

Solas leaned against the stone wall that surrounded Haven nonchalantly. He turned his head briefly when he heard footsteps he recognized rounding the corner. Aslaug stood in her full regalia. Wild hair and braids, her furs and heavy boots, corded leather with bright yellow and black war paint on her face. Her lids were blackened and tendrils of what looked to be vines were painstakingly applied so they fanned out to her temples. Her chin was completely colored in that nearly golden yellow and her bottom lip was outlined in black.

“I haven’t seen you wear those combination of colors before,” he remarked. She’d only worn blue and white with black liberally applied.

She crossed her arms and took a spot beside him. “That’s for the field. Typical coloring of the Avvar. This.” She swept an arm across the makeshift ring and the assortment of Avvar as if she were displaying some grand ball below. “This isn’t about battle. This is about Holds and gods. When there’s a gathering like this, you wear the colors of your Hold and your gods to show your pride and loyalty.”

Solas’s gaze turned silently to the augur of Lurkerhold, Hrathgur, and the several warriors at his side. They all wore variations of white and light green with dark blue spots. Overhead, the Inquisition’s banner snapped loudly and it drew his attention. The golden baleful eye and its dark, ominous background.

Ah. “You didn’t wish to completely replicate the Inquisition’s design?” He wondered aloud.

“I tried putting the yellow on my eyes instead of the black. Sera said it looked like I had an eye infection so I changed it.” She grumbled without taking her eyes off the next bout.

Solas slowly craned his neck in her direction. She caught it and sniffed loudly. “It’s my first time making a design for Havenhold. I didn’t know what to do for it and you were nowhere to be found and Varric and Iron Bull were already down here for the matches. Cassandra is with Cullen planning on what to do when she reaches that templar. Blackwall’s too polite to say it really looks like and I don’t want to know what Vivienne thinks.”

“Which left Sera.”

“I thought it would be a good chance to bond.” She scowled. “I let her paint me and she drew a cock on my cheek.”

Solas was unable to stop the snort of amusement. Aslaug gave him a dry look. “Obviously, this took longer when I had to wash it off twice.”

He nodded. “I see,” and he did - but it begged the question. “I see the Inquisition in your paint but no mention of any gods.”

She rolled her eyes. “Havenhold hasn’t got any gods. They don’t stay like in an Avvar Hold. They come and they go. They wander too much and I can’t dedicate paint to them unless they’re a part of the Hold.” She lifted her marked hand. “I would have painted something to dedicate to this since it’s god-touched, but I have no idea what kind of god made it. Or if it’d need me dedicating anything to it. It’s already marked me, after all. Everyone can see I belong to it.”

He felt his stomach drop and the blood from his face drained at her words. “What makes you believe you _belong_ to it?” His words came out harsher than he’d wanted. Aslaug met his gaze, perhaps surprised by his nearly abrasive tone.

“It marked me. Gods don’t...leave something like this without meaning that person isn’t theirs. Could be...a message. Could be they find this person worthy above all others. Could be something else.” She flexed her fingers.

“Do you believe it was solely divine providence that created this?” He nodded to her hand. She couldn’t know the true history behind it, but it felt distinctly like...a purposeful betrayal if he let her continue believing that a god was going to keep her for something without encouraging her to question it. She didn’t belong to anyone. The notion, the very concept of Aslaug willingly giving herself over to an unknown entity simply because tradition and spiritual faith demanded it was intolerable. She’d proven herself beyond being a simple crude creature.

She hummed in thought. “I don’t know. Perhaps it was one god that struck the Lady and decided to mark me as insult. Or a god loyal to the Lady that needed a mortal body to house this to mend her. It could be none of these things and just coincidence. What did Varric call it? Wrong place, wrong time?”

Despite himself, Solas felt his earlier tension alleviate somewhat. “There are many possibilities,” he agreed vaguely.

A body hit the packed earth and another cheer rose from the crowd, spreading further than the inner core of encircled Avvar. Several Inquisition soldiers had moved closer to the strange people to share the hype. “I’m assuming you will be joining in the matches?”

Aslaug shook her head to his surprise. The beads in her braids knocked together gently. “Thanes don’t join in these, and neither do augurs. I’ve already told them I’m not a thane or an augur so they think I must be something in between.” Aslaug shrugged. “There are others to prove Havenhold’s worth.”

Another match winner was declared; a female Inquisition soldier had triumphed over a hunter from another distant Hold.

“Solas.”

“Yes?”

“What gods do you keep?”

Solas sighed. He was somewhat surprised this hadn’t come up earlier, but with the way Aslaug stumbled into offensive remarks and or brought up lines of controversial conversation only to be censured for it, perhaps she was warier of topics. In truth, it was not so close to his heart, but it was a rather delicate matter. “I don’t believe I keep gods the way you do, Aslaug.”

She clucked her tongue. “No one keeps gods the way the Avvar do.” Her eyes shined, a glister of hazel ringed in white surrounded by black vines. Her hair blew in the wind behind her head.

“I am afraid to disappoint you, Aslaug. I do not follow any gods.” He paused when she only hummed. “Are you not surprised, or offended?”

She pursed her lips at him. “I’m not surprised. You never mentioned the Dalish Pantheon, or spoke of the Maker...or of any other gods that exist. And why would I be offended?”

Solas gave a self-deprecating huff. “I suppose I assumed you would react in a less than pleased manner when I stated my stance on the topic.”

“Everyone has beliefs. No matter what they are, they belong to that person alone. It isn’t my right to be angry.” She leaned on the post that separated them. “It does seem lonely though.” She sounded pensive.

Solas glanced away and then back up. “I would like to believe in something that looked down upon this world with something close to compassion or understanding.”

“Like their Maker?”

“I suppose," and then he paused. “Although the Avvar seem more at peace with your gods than any other people I know of.”

“Because we understand that we make them and they make us. The end and the beginning.” She settled the side of her head on the post and gazed at him with one eye peering around the corner. “We are our gods. They are us.”

Solas furrowed his brow. “I...am not certain I fully understand.” It was not a feeling he cherished. The yawning hunger for knowledge that his youthful self had been known for had followed him even in this age.

Aslaug grinned, white teeth over gold paint and black lines, her eyes squinted and the vines seemed to thicken. “Stop thinking like a lowlander, Solas. I know you aren’t.”

Augur Hrathgur called her name and she twisted to jog over to his side, clamping onto his forearm and jostling him before drawing a circle in the dirt with her finger. She made several other designs at their feet but the angle at which he was positioned, Solas couldn’t tell what she was drawing.  

He remained at his place near the wooden gates, watched as Iron Bull entered the ring and the young Avvar who stumbled over his own feet at the sight of his opponent. The meaning of her words would have offended him, as they had the first time she had implied something similar, but now he saw the truth of what she said. He was as much a stranger as she was.

There was - not quite a kinship connected to the significance of what she spoke of, but something that resembled empathy and a sense of relief. Relief of knowing he was not the only one so out of place in this world. She did belong to this world of mortals, curtained behind the Veil, but not entirely to them. There was a difference - not one he would have assumed had existed before. 

Iron Bull laughed when the young warrior tried to use speed to outdo him, and ended up on his rear in the dirt. Dazed, he swayed and Iron Bull picked him up and dusted him off, began shouting tips and commands to adjust his stance. The battle arena had turned into a training yard again in short order; older warriors called out advice and the younger ones fought amongst themselves to be the qunari’s opponent.

Further from the ring, augur Hrathgur held up his arms as if in supplication and began to chant. Solas cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. He could hear precious little of what was being said over the forceful cheering and yelling, but what he heard was only of the Avvar language, so far removed from common tongue and Elvish he couldn’t even hazard a guess about what was being said.

The Avvar mages had congregated near the augur and Aslaug shortly. Their mouths moved and their lids drooped. Each wore different braid styles, different painted designs, different colors but even so their chant seemed to be synchronized. He noticed he wasn’t the only one looking in on the proceedings. Several of the Circle mages who had fled to the Inquisition rather than join the rebel mages had approached curiously.

“What are they doing?”

“Singing or chanting, I think. Some Avvar welcoming custom?”

“Please don’t let them be summoning spirits.”

“They wouldn’t! Not with the Seeker and Commander nearby. Not to mention the templars.”

They would though. They _would_ dare; shamelessly so. Solas unconsciously leaned in, drawn by the lure they seemed to be creating. It wasn’t tearing and puncturing a hole in the Veil, not even quite lifting it, but making it, in simpler terms, thin. Diluting it as if adding water to wine. They couldn't possibly lift the Veil alone, or puncture it - but dilution was possible. There were spirits that dwelt in the Veil beyond but never seemed to come near. There were demons that clawed to be ever closer; rage and despair particularly seemed rampant here, but this...ritual the augur was leading was beckoning the spirits but not the demons.

Inviting. Not summoning.

Aslaug’s voice seemed to raise, palms up and arms aloft, eyes closed.

The Veil continued to thin.

While his heart beat a tattoo of adrenaline behind the cage of his ribs out of what could have been in anxiety for the situation she was creating for herself even after her slip in the Mire, or perhaps feeling a semblance of the world that once was through this liturgy, Solas felt the world that remained twist and the Veil reflected it. Spirits were invited, an invocation, Aslaug had once called a rite her people did and perhaps this was it. It was familiar, yet not. 

The world, while only in the immediate area of the chanting Avvar mages which were now led by Aslaug who had picked up the second verse of the chant, awoke in color and feeling.

“Maker above...do you see that?” An elven Circle mage whispered softly at his side.

His companion, a human, squinted. “See what?”

“All of that!”

“Is it a demon?” His companion asked uneasily.

“No. I - I don’t think so. It’s just...it looks...different over there now, is all.”

“How’d you mean?”

The elf shrugged helplessly. “I can’t describe it, really. Pretty, though.”

Solas felt his heart stutter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be codex entries added by the next chapter regarding several topics found here as it will go into further detail. 
> 
> goði - chief/priest


	16. goði twa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to answer most of the reviews, but I don’t always get around to it and if my answers are vague, I promise I’m not ignoring you, it’s likely because it’s connected to spoilers of some kind and I’m trying to avoid spoiling everything (I am terrible at spoiler-prevention). Hope all of you are still enjoying and thank you to everyone who still finds this worth a read. I feel like I'm boring most of you half to death but I swear Redcliffe is happening very soon. Thank you all for sticking around.

Cassandra strode forward, kitted out in armor and weapons with a stern expression on her face. In one hand, she held a crumpled letter. Aslaug straightened from her slouch against a wall adjacent the war room to catch her eye. The Seeker slowed and raised an eyebrow. “Herald. I thought the meeting was over.”

“It is.” She looked down at the letter. “That from your man?”

Cassandra nodded shortly. “We must move quickly, but I assume Leliana already told you that we plan to leave shortly.”

Aslaug hummed. “I think going to the templars is a mistake.”

Cassandra shook her head. “I understand your resistance. Templars have never looked on your people kindly and I am honest when I say I doubt they will do so now. It is best you are the one to collect the mages.”

Aslaug knew that. As much as Cullen seemed to have a slowly growing respect for her, she sensed the way he watched her in his periphery, as if she were a wild animal they had only recently trained.

“But we cannot only rely on the mages to do their part.” Cassandra made a downward slash with her free hand. “I wish I could trust them.” She met Aslaug’s gaze steadily. “I trust you, Herald. But I do not know your people. And unfortunately, that makes us strangers. All of Thedas relies on the Inquisition to stop the chaos.”

Aslaug pursed her lips and clenched her hands on her forearms. “I understand.” And she did. She was a stranger, an outsider from a distant place, and she wished to change their ways because she saw them as wrong. She understood. But that didn’t mean she would let it lie. “I’ve already been tasked with gathering the mages. If you get the templars, where will we put them? They are already at each other's’ throats.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes and took a step forward. “They will have no choice. There are more important things going on than their feud.”

Aslaug bowed her head and searched for words that fell short of her tongue. She was not Solas, or Varric, or Josephine - she was honest, and blunt. Traits she saw mirrored in the Seeker that reflected back and she admired. “I am afraid of being surrounded on all sides,” she said finally. Avvar never lied, in truth - misled, redirected, circled, but outright lying was seen as some lowlander trait. They had seen the dwarven empire tear itself apart over a lie; the Avvar learned well from their stone-brothers and sisters.

Cassandra blinked once and jerked her head back. “Of the templars? You showed no such fear of the ones we fought or those that you met in Val Royeaux.”

Aslaug nodded once. “I haven’t fought any real ones; the ones in the Hinterlands were starved of their lyrium and weakened. But I saw _you_. I saw you steal the magic from the spirit-talkers we fought and cast it away into the nothingness that has no place in this world.” She swallowed her pride and the vitriolic words that pressed against the back of her throat like bile. "And the ones in Orlais were merely rivals. The ones you mean to bring here will be allies. I've heard what they do to my kind. What if they believe I may do something and choose to make me Tranquil or bind me? Will people believe them blindly and allow it? If they are made allies and they see _me_ as the enemy, what will be the outcome of that?" Her voice pitched.

“They will be on our side, Herald. You do not need to fear them -” Cassandra began to soothe.

“I saw what you did. I have never felt such a fear grow in me before. But I trust you. You wouldn’t do that to me; you are honest and true and your faith in your Maker guides your paths. But I don’t know them. And I don’t trust them.”

Cassandra let out a loud sigh. “And you can say without a doubt that you trust the mages? Even after they sided with _Tevinter_?”

“No, I don’t. But I can fight them. And I can feel them in the world.” Aslaug gnawed her bottom lip gently. “How do you fight something that takes away what you are?”

Cassandra fell silent and rested her balled hands on her hips, gaze to the ground. “I understand,” she said finally. “But you must understand that if we only look to the mages, the common people of Thedas will assume we have an agenda. Especially with you as the Herald of Andraste.”

“You think people will doubt the Inquisition if you allow an Avvar to make too many decisions on behalf of it.”

Cassandra gave her a pained grimace. “Yes.”

Aslaug tugged her earlobe and shook her hair. She itched to fight it, to make the Seeker feel the dark thing that swallowed her brave heart - but what good would come of it, except another fight? “Fine.” She walked past Cassandra to the entrance of the Chantry and turned back once to see the Seeker shaking her head, cursing herself. “I understand you. Do you understand me?” She called out. Several of the priestesses looked over in curiosity.

The Seeker went quiet but then said, “No. But I am trying.”

Less than what she wanted, better than what she thought, and honest. She bobbed her head before choosing the path that led to the stables and the yurts erected near it. Avvar Hold emblems painted on their sides wrinkled in the wind.

She could hear talking and yelling and singing, the sound of leather and cloth flapping. Across the way in the training yard, the Inquisition forces looked over at their neighbors in curiosity.

One of the Avvar caught sight of her - his heraldry said Falconhold. He jerked his chin in her direction and the other Avvar turned. Augur Hrathgur looked up from the small fire he’d made to squint at her.

The augur stood slowly and approached her. “Come. You must meet the ones who answered your call.”

She raised her brows. “Didn’t the gods tell you I’m not a thane?”

“That doesn’t matter down here. You’re a bit of one.” He leaned down to whisper in her ear, “You’ve a legend-mark, Aslaug Gundhilddotten. The gods showed me. Aslaug God-marked.” And he pulled back after that cryptic remark, shoving her at the strangers who came down from their mountain homes.

Falconhold had answered first, brother-in-battle to Lurkerhold. Great-Stag Hold, who claimed to love the Lady of the Skies the most, answered the call next. Snake-fish Hold sent scouts to investigate, Stone-Bear Hold was in the midst of having bad luck and was battling the remnants of Red-Lion Hold, and so sent war mounts instead. Ramhornshold sent forth spirit-talkers and one hunter. Harthold, the Hold that boasted the wildest and most loyal harts, had sent forth their mounts and hunters, spirit-talkers and warriors. Wyvernhold, a once-enemy of Lurkerhold, had sent a single messenger to inform them Wyvernhold had no stakes in the lowlands before he departed.

It was as Cullen had said. Less than they needed, but more than before. The total number of Avvar within Havenhold reached up to forty-six, and an unproportionate number of those bodies came from Harthold. Lurkerhold was not large enough to send out any greater numbers than it had, but augur Hrathgur counted as five mages in terms of wisdom.

The training yard behind her was awash in chaotic, hurried movement. Tents were moved further away, makeshift logs were stacked and posts were staked into the ground to form a crude arena.

The Avvar, newly met and wary of this woman who was called herald of the burning woman, marked by an unknown god, greeted her stiffly, clasping her forearm tightly and regarded her the way an unbroken horse eyed a saddle.

The hunters and scouts eventually trickled away to investigate what the Inquisition soldiers were doing. Only the mages remained. The spirit-talkers had been mostly quiet, lingering on the edges of the introductions but now they clustered together, surrounding her in bodies.

“Let’s see it then.” One woman - Ramhornshold - looked down at her hands. “Where did that god mark you?”

Another man, younger than the woman looked at her face. “Do you know what god marked you?”

“Why did it mark you?”

“Was it a corrupt god?”

“Did you let it inside you?”

“Should we try to force it out?”

Aslaug blinked rapidly at the quick assault of questions.

“Quiet, you lot,” augur Hrathgur grunted. “I’ve spoken to the gods in Lurkerhold, and to the ones down here. The ones that will come close enough anyway.”

“Oh.” The woman from Ramhornshold scowled. “I noticed. You’ve no gods here, in Havenhold. Or is it the Maker that watches over all of you?”

Aslaug gave her a nasty look.

“Shut up,” augur Hrathgur warned. “I may be old, but I can still take any of you to task.” The tension bled away reluctantly. “Let’s see it, Aslaug.”

“I can’t summon it, not really.” She concentrated, brows knitting together and the mark on her hand responded. It tore her hand open painlessly, pulled at her from the inside like a child uprooting a plant.

The spirit-talkers stared. “You’re holding the land of dreams in your hand,” one murmured. His face was slashed over with red paint in the shape of four claw marks.

The woman from Ramhornshold frowned deeply. “That. Is from no god of ours.” She looked nearly angry. “You let their Maker mark you for himself, and you dare call yourself Avvar?”

Aslaug bared her teeth. “I let no one mark me and I _am_ Avvar. No one knows what god did this.” And she shoved her palm in the other woman’s face aggressively. “Hold your tongue if you don’t understand.”

The woman pushed her hand away. “Then how did it happen?” She asked impatiently.

“I don’t remember,” she snapped.

Augur Hrathgur hummed curiously, “I wonder.”

“You wonder what?”

He held out a large hand and Aslaug set her hand, knuckles down, in the cradle of his palm. He peered at the green light. “I wonder...if that god took your memories on purpose.”

“Why would a god do that?” An older spirit-talker speculated.

“Maybe...it didn’t want you to know what marked you.” He turned her hand this and that way, clucking his tongue and murmuring softly to himself. “For whatever reason that may be, this god, what marked you, may be hiding from you.” He turned bright blue eyes up at her. “I asked the gods here if they knew. They are skittish down here, but they answered what they could. They gave me no name for what marked you. They left the area when the Lady was wounded.”

He set her hand down at her side. “Why would it be hiding?” Aslaug asked. She felt the dull thud of her heartbeat in her ears, in her throat.

Augur Hrathgur’s expression was stoic and unmoving. “Maybe it was afraid of being discovered by the lowlanders.”

Aslaug’s expression sharpened. “You don’t believe that.”

“No.” His eyes flicked down to her marked hand and he exhaled loudly. “An unknown secret god, with an unknown mark that heals the Lady. Is it meant for healing? Or something else?”

“A secret god dwelling in the lowlands that just so happens to mark you when the Lady is wounded,” the man from Harthold said. “Is this a kind god? Or the markings of a corrupt god.”

“Could be both. Might be a nature god,” a woman from Harthold spoke.

“This is to do with the land of dreams, fool, not rivers.” The woman from Ramhornshold, this time.

“A god of healing, perhaps? A god of order?”

Augur Hrathgur slitted his eyes and gestured Aslaug to follow him from the circle of arguing spirit-talkers. They broke away silently.

“We’ll do an invocation to see if we can’t attract a god to Havenhold, or at least open the door for one,” he said. “There were more of us before, but when they were informed Havenhold had no gods, they left. Bad luck.”

Aslaug nodded. “Thank you. I’ll prepare for it - if we’re doing it, we have to do it now. I have to leave soon.”

Hrathgur nodded absently. “‘This is to do with the land of dreams.’ Mouthy though she is, she has the right of it.”

“The one from Ramhornshold?”

“Mm. You know the Tevinters...they had gods before they chose to follow Andraste and her Maker.”

“The old gods? Their dragon-kings?”

“Mm. Supposedly, the Maker cast them from the world to live below the world for whispering to mortals that they created the world and to worship them instead. There were cursed with an eternal slumber.”

“I remember that. The mortals invoked them and they came through from the lands of dreams and they all took the form of dragons.”

“That’s the way they tell it.” He looked down at her. “Do you know what else they said?”

“What?"

“They said that the old gods continued whispering to them from the deep. They slept in their mortal forms but their dreaming minds sought out people to speak to even though the lowlanders’ Maker caged them from the world. They say that they still seek a way out of their entrapment.”

Aslaug halted and turned her head slowly to augur Hrathgur who also stopped. “You cannot mean what I think you do.”

Augur Hrathgur looked up at the sky, toward the Great Wound. “And what manner of god would have the power to undo what was done to the Lady, but wish to be a secret?”

 

…

 

Despite the disturbing possibility augur Hrathgur had seen, he encouraged her to paint her face and ready herself for an invocation. The non-magic-blooded Avvar were already throwing challenges to one another in the ring and inviting the Inquisition forces to do the same.

Aslaug gathered her paints and tapped the rusted looking glass on her stand near the bed allotted for her. The woman who looked back didn’t look like a woman an old god would whisper to. She was no Tevinter.

But perhaps that was the point. And - no. No. Thinking about it now would only aggravate her newfound anxiety towards this. Augur Hrathgur had only meant it as a possibility to consider when they’d been investigating who the god that marked her was. There were other powerful gods that could have caused this, that could have marked her.

Aslaug gathered her paint pouches and went in search of Varric - the dwarf-skald wasn’t there, and Solas was absent from his small cabin. Cassandra would be in a meeting with the advisors about meeting more tower-keepers - and the slight nausea she felt curdle in her gut worsened. She wandered over to the merriment lodge when she heard a familiar cackle.

Poking her head through a small window, she looked down at Sera.

She jumped and then snorted. “What’re you doing there, all watchy?”

Aslaug opened her mouth, closed it, and tried again, “I need help.”

Sera sniffed loudly. “With what?”

“Painting.”

“...you what now?”

And perhaps Aslaug should have anticipated that Sera would be obnoxiously vocal in her criticisms regarding her culture, but it didn’t chafe the way she would have expected. Sera was, in her whole being, irreverent to all things and Aslaug being Avvar had no special impact on that. It was an odd thing to be appreciative of and said perhaps too much of her time down in the lowlands.

“Awh, no, no, no. Looks like you’re leaking pus everywhere if you do it like that.” Sera shook her head, cross-legged on Aslaug’s bed.

“Does it?” She scrutinized her reflection. The heavy gold was too garish for her taste, but she had precious little yellow and this was a darker tone than what the Inquisition banners carried.

“Yeah. Looks really gross.”

Aslaug washed her face. “Maybe black instead.”

“With those weird vine things? Might work, or it might look like you’ve got some wicked eyebrows growing out of your eyelids or something.”

Aslaug ignored Sera and applied her paint to eyelids, snaking the curls of the designs. Sera rummaged through her chest of armor and investigated the drawers of her nightstand. “Now.” Aslaug turned to look at the elf.

Sera scrunched her nose. “Yeah, it’s alright. Need some more color than that though right?”

Aslaug smeared a half-circle of yellow on her chin and bottom lip, painting a stripe in the middle of her top lip. The result was fair enough, but probably not impressive enough for Havenhold and the Inquisition.

She slicked her fingernail in black and drew a thin line to underline her bottom lip. She glanced briefly at Sera. “Do you want to help?”

Sera giggled. “You sure ‘bout that? You didn’t like the last time I got all in your paints.”

“Because when you gave them back they smelled like horse.”

“What, and you smell so great now?” She held out her hands. “Give it here.”

Aslaug sat on the chair and, at Sera’s demand, closed her eyes. A thin fingertip touched her cheek. She felt fingertips dot her cheeks, felt a stripe down her nose, whorls applied to her. Sera’s finger grazed her jawline and she jerked back at the unexpected intrusion. “Stop that. I’m concentrating.”

Aslaug held as still as she could.

Sera snorted when she giggled and Aslaug tried not to anticipate the worst. “Right. Done.”

Aslaug immediately looked at Sera’s reddening face and looked in the glass. Two thumbprints of black rested on each cheekbone, a slightly too bold line of black ran down her nose and gold highlighted her entire jawline, extending out from the edges of the half circle on her chin. Near the corner of her mouth, Sera had drawn a small cock.

She turned to the elf who cackled loud enough that she could have shaken the foundation of the cabin. “Your face! You’ve got cock on your face!” She laughed louder. “Bet that’s not too new for you though.”

Aslaug scowled. The white paint mixture was in reach, and she swiped her fingers generously through it before smearing it on one side of Sera’s face. “Looks like it got you too.” She lifted her chin with a grin.

Sera laughed and stepped back until the inside of her knees hit Aslaug’s bed. She sat down ungracefully. “Ewww. No thanks for that.” She wiped at her cheek furiously. “Eugh, it’s all oily. Wonder if it’s really like that. Wait - nevermind. You’d actually tell me.”

Aslaug scrubbed at the mischief done on her skin with a cloth and scraping oil. After it was gone, she threw the rag Sera’s way. “Use that. You’ll rub your skin raw if you do it like that.”

Sera cleaned herself and then chanced a glance at her. “So. What is this?”

Aslaug looked at her blankly. “What.”

“I mean you and me being all buddy-buddy. Thought you didn’t like ‘lowlanders’.” Sera used her fingers as quotation.

“I do. It’s just...different. I’m not used to that.”

“It’s just the way I’ve heard you talk about it, yeah? All ‘lowlander’ this and ‘lowlander’ that. I mean, innit just people who piss you off, mostly?”

Aslaug fiddled with the rag in a moment of embarrassment. “I don’t mean to sound like that. I’m just used to being an Avvar among Avvar. Then I come down here and suddenly I’m a savage who doesn’t know anything and never did.”

Sera blew air between loose lips and made a noise that sounded vaguely like a horse. “Well, that’s because you’re surrounded by all the big-butts all the time with their big cushy chairs and bloody _wipers_. If you go down to us ‘common folk’...well they’d probably still hate that you were a mage. Magic is scary to people who can’t do it and probably doesn’t help what with the Chantry an’ all. But whatever. Point is, you go down to the little people, people who all the people who’re telling you that you don’t know anything and that you’re stupid say the same things to, they won’t care that you can’t read. Lots of them can’t. They’ll care whether or not you work, and if you’ll lend a hand sometimes or just talk to them.” Sera flopped on the bed and squirmed until she looked up at Aslaug upside down. “Get it? You might be a Herald with the big-butts, but to the little people, you can be one of them trying their best. Even with you being all _pwoah_ up there with the rest of them, you can’t forget the little people.”

Aslaug stared down at her wide-eyed.

“What?” Sera sounded defensive.

“That made a lot of sense,” she admitted.

“‘S’not like it’s complicated. I bet before you came down here it was like that. It’s all these important fops that’ve got you all mixed up in complicatedness.”

 

…

 

Hrathgur clamped her upper arm when she stood next to him and drew her close. “We keep what I said earlier between us. I’m unsure how the others would react, much less your lowlander friends.”

Aslaug nodded and chanced a glance back at Solas. He seemed preoccupied with the fighting. She and Hrathgur moved further out, to a knoll that overlooked the icy lake and at a position where the fighters wouldn’t see them as well.

She squatted and drew a large circle around them. Around the circle, symbols of the Lady of the Skies for her blessing, a crude representation of Korth’s heraldry and the varying runic symbols for protection, invocation, and welcome. And in the center of the main circle, she drew the eye of the Inquisition. Hrathgur nodded approvingly at her work.

“It’s been some time since I’ve had to call a god.” Hrathgur stood with his legs shoulder-width apart and breathed in deeply. “Breathe deep, and let yourself pour into this mortal world so the land of dreams is nearer.” He murmured and turned his face to the sky. He began to hum low.

Aslaug breathed in, out, in, out - and saw that the other spirit-talkers of the other Holds were walking their way.

They ringed the outer edges of the circle, careful to avoid the icons beyond it.

Augur Hrathgur hummed from the depths of his throat and finally began to lead the chant. Emptying the self’s thoughts into the world, calling to the land of dreams and inviting those that dwelt within it. He chanted first alone, heavy and low tones that sounded similar to the crush of rock or the sound of a far off war horn.

Aslaug and the others soon joined, voices finding the rhythm easily.

She felt her body relax as she gave in to the incantation, calling ancestors and gods and all those beyond the mortal realm, reaching and reaching - but never expecting to touch. A balance as delicate as a spider’s gossamer web. Her arms lifted, palm up and augur Hrathgur’s voice faded after the first verse to find the place where the land of dreams could be found; this was her Hold, she was meant to invoke a welcoming call, a search.

All around her she could feel the burning forces of the people participating in the rite. Aslaug raised her voice above the others, ululating and singing of affection beyond the entrapment of mortal wants, the need to have gods close. She sang of the wintry forest around Havenhold and the people who needed gods. She elevated her arms higher, face turned up to the sun and eyes closed.

And the ripple of their invocation echoed as voices would in a cave. The land of dreams stretched and they pressed closer, closer, the ripples went out faster, wider. And there was a feeling close to an ache as they pursued it, a nearly uncomfortable feeling as if her skin were being stretched and her scalp prickled.

The feelings left her soon when she reached the end of the chant, voice emboldened and she gave a final wail that seemed to take all that she had to offer before she slumped in place and fell silent. The other spirit-talkers including augur Hrathgur continued humming and chanting. Her heart drummed loudly in her ears and rattled at the cage of her ribs. Her breath came nearly too quick and not enough for her to catch up on. 

The chanting from the others died away slowly and they each came back to themselves.

Augur Hrathgur opened his eyes to look at her. “Good.”

She nodded. With a final word, the augur broke the circle and other images in the dirt with a sweep of his foot.

She turned and swayed, weak-kneed from it but the augur steadied her. She looked up to thank him but his attention was focused beyond her. She followed his gaze and saw Solas and a few Circle mages studying them. “Don’t tell any of them what we did. Except Solas, if he asks.” It was becoming difficult to concentrate.

“Which one is that?”

“The elf. The bald one,” she slurred.

“You trust him so much?” The augur’s tone was ambiguous to her in her altered state. He still led her in his direction regardless. “What’s his name?”

“Solas. Solas of the north. He’s from the lowlands, somewhere. But I don’t think he is one.” 

Aslaug didn’t remember how she got to her bed, but she distinctly remembered augur Hrathgur speaking to someone in quiet, urgent tones. Sleep came too swiftly for her awareness and the day was gone to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex entry “Avvar ritual invocation” (canon, non-canon)
> 
> Invocations often take place for only specific reasons in mind: to usher in a new god, to rebirth a god, or to “call” a new god to a Hold. The Avvar describe these invocations as pressing against the land of dreams, or as most of Thedas would understand, possibly pushing against the Veil. While the Veil is repels the Fade and cannot be physically sensed or touched, the Avvar are not necessarily trying to touch or break it; in their words, it is not dissimilar to pressing your ear against a closed door to hear what is being said on the other side. 
> 
> That said, each invocation ritual is done differently. In the first part of “goði”, augur Hrathgur leads the Avvar mages into a ritual chant (which had obviously been planned and prepared for), and it was meant to call gods to Haven to protect and guide it. To have no gods watching over a Hold in Avvar culture is like having a deathwish. A seasoned augur knows the correct ways to guard against unwanted gods (see corrupt gods; rage, despair, pride) which was perhaps the reason why Aslaug herself never attempted to call any gods to Haven. 
> 
> Due to the Veil “thinning”, Solas and other elves nearby were able to see something that the humans and other races could not; indeed even the chanting human Avvar mages cannot see it, although within the confines of their ritual circle, they are certainly able to sense what is often referred to by the Avvar as a “waking trance”; a subtle feeling that the land of dreams is closer although that is physically impossible. 
> 
> Several Circles have dismissed the notion that this is possible entirely, and that the Avvar put themselves in great danger by calling spirits to them without proper guidance. As such, this is seen as a practice nearly on level with blood magic. 
> 
>  
> 
> I had an ask on tumblr regarding a pretty important point in TIFTM so I thought I'd post it here:  
> tumblr ask: why does aslaug allow the inquisition to recruit the templars? 
> 
> My belief is that I highly doubt that anyone beyond a human noble and possibly a dwarf (since humans tend to have less racial tension with dwarves) would be seen as a competent leader and that all their decisions would be immediately accepted; i.e, Lavellan or Adaar and particularly a mage. Aslaug is more than aware that she is seen as a savage, has been talked to like a child that doesn’t know better (which fits canon if you take mostly any of the inner circle to Frostback basin and speak with the augur). Here, Aslaug doesn’t see that she has much choice in accepting more templars: Cullen and Cassandra are both vocal about it, Josephine I think would want as many allies as possible, not to mention Vivienne would prefer templars and likely has many nobles in Orlais backing her. Aslaug is trying to work with what she’s been given; her refusal to go meet with the templars is essentially her saying that they have to do it themselves. Honestly, she has been vocal against getting templar support, but her stance on the matter is being ignored: she’s an unknown apostate, illiterate, and a so called savage. The advisors (often I think with the exception of Leliana who traveled with the Warden and an eclectic group) and inner circle don’t see her capable of leading the Inquisition at this time and so do not fully trust her judgement. In regards to Cassandra, she doesn’t really respect the spiritual faith of others outside of Andrastianism (see Temple of Mythal or Frostback Basin) which likely affects her perspective of Aslaug.
> 
> At least that was my thought process about why she would “allow” them. In truth, so far in TIFTM, she isn’t really a leader the way it’s portrayed in canon DA:I, she’s more of a figurehead and mascot who does things the advisors suggest. This changes later on, but that is the situation currently.


	17. fararleyfi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fararleyfi - to leave or depart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically it’s the final part of the two previous chapters so it's tiny, but the name change is sort of significant here and not just for the obvious reason. (also don't hate me for what happens)

The mark on her hand split open with green light. Aslaug gasped and held her wrist with her other hand tightly, holding the appendage from her body as if she meant to rip it off. The mark spat green flames that tore up her arm and the world drowned in the color. The sky was black overhead and ash fell from it like rain.

She gagged at the feeling, the mark split open wider; a gaping maw that spilled forth light and finally a voice spoke from it but not with any words. It was a language beyond her comprehension that pained her to even listen to. It sounded like a thousand bones breaking at once. The sound of rolling thunder overhead and an earthquake below at once. It was the sound of the last breath of the dying. It was horror and unnatural and had no place in this world.

The pain worsened, burned and tore her from the inside, flames continued pouring from it as if the land of the dreams meant to use her as its birth-mother. She screamed and wailed, but called for no gods because deep down she knew there weren’t any, no gods tread where this one did; it was the eater of gods and it meant to kill her, break her beneath its great weight. It continued speaking, groaning and heaving from her palm, then her wrist and her arm and she flailed with her other to hack her arm off. Her weapons were gone and there was no one around. She was alone, lost, and forgotten.

From her palm, a great eye peered out; golden and black and green with a slitted pupil and it spoke again. Her heart stuttered from its rhythm and her entire body pitched back, staggering from the flood of fear.

Her mouth was open, but no sound came out. There was an uneasy moment of stillness in the air and the creature looking out from her mark finally blinked. Her radius and ulna cracked open like rotten fruit and her voice returned to her in a shriek. The scaled tip of a wing poked through her flesh.

The mark continued to spread through her body, and where it ruined her it brought scaled hide, and she fell to her back, writhing silently.

The voice kept speaking to her while her body was slowly flayed open by it forcing its way from the land of dreams. Overhead, the moon cracked open like an egg and fell from the sky. And there was no light left in the world.

Aslaug’s eyes opened and she staggered to the small window of her cabin, legs tangled in sheets. She stuck her head out to vomit in the patch of weeds. She gagged at the sour taste of nothing but bile and yesterday’s ale in her. She spat several times before the taste left her.

A shuddering breath later and she let her cheek rest on the windowsill. The sun wasn’t up yet and in the distance, she could see patrols with their torches.

The morning air was cool and the scent of pine steadied her stomach.

An old god mark.

What other god would have the power to undo what was done to the Lady but wish to be a secret?

It made a frightening amount of sense.

If an old god wished to seek out a mortal through which it could gain a foothold beyond the land of dreams to lead to its body, this mark would be sufficient. A road or key to the land of dreams, but disguised as a boon to the people within the mortal realm. Not simply a doorway, but an apparent salvation. It would mean that in all likelihood that god would have been the one to wound the Lady of the Skies.

A dragon-king wouldn’t wait for thousands of years for such a possibility.

She couldn’t guess at its plans, in truth. She was not so old and it was too far removed from the gods that wandered now to be comprehensible.

Augur Hrathgur had only mentioned it as a possibility.

She would treat it as a far-flung suspicion for now for her own sake. Perhaps she would mention it to Solas. His wanderings of the land of dreams and encounters with gods may reveal clues or at least contain more information about the old gods. Avvar knowledge about the Tevinter old gods was spare, and to her knowledge, most of the lowlanders preferred to keep any information about them in the dark.

Even so, it was too much to leave alone. She would press for Redcliffe by the late afternoon at least. They had to close the Great Wound. The phantom feeling of a creature clawing its way from her still made her shake.

Washing her face with a handful of snow and brushing her hair hurriedly, Aslaug changed out of her clothes from fresher ones. She made a beeline for Havenhold’s gates and to the brightly colored yurts outside of it. Lurkerhold’s pale green emblem of an open-mouthed lurker snapped on the material.

“Augur. Augur,” she called into cold.

There was a grunt from within and the flaps of the entrance were opened. Augur Hrathgur squinted at her. “What are you doing girl?” He asked. Sleep still crusted over his eyes and he wore very little, only his fur and soft-hide pants. Beyond him, Aslaug saw a naked leg slung out of a pile of furs. Despite herself, she made a face. Augur Hrathgur noticed and grumbled, “Even if I’m old it doesn’t mean I can’t get it up.” He made a shooing noise with his hands.

She backed up and he slipped from the small travel yurt to stand beside her. The flaps sealed shut behind him. “What is it?” He murmured. “You look like you’ve been sick.” He leaned closer and sniffed. “Smell like it too. I didn’t think the invocation would take so much from you.” He looked distinctly worried then.

Aslaug shook her head and shifted her feet. “I mean to make for Redcliffe today. The others...the advisors wanted me to stay to keep an eye on all the Avvar who answered the call.”

“As if we’re prone to pillage and rape as soon as your back is turned?” He asked flatly and crossed his arms over his chest.

“They think we’re barbarians but that isn’t the point. I need you to stay here and keep an eye on them until I get back.”

Augur Hrathgur frowned. “You don’t know how long you’ll be gone. I have faith in my apprentice, but not for so long by herself. She still needs guidance and the thane…”

“What about the thane?” She asked in alarm.

“He’d old. Older than me. He’s been sick lately. The Lady of the Skies will call to him soon.”

She blinked. “He was fine when I left.” She trailed off, thought of how many full moons had risen above her head since she last saw the Hold. Did so much change in so little time?

Augur Hrathgur sighed loudly but not unkindly. “You’ve been gone for over six months, girl. Life is still moving on. The Hold has already chosen a new thane when Damark falls.”

She rocked back on her heels. “Who’s the new thane?”

“Jorunn.” Augur Hrathgur watched her unblinkingly. “I didn’t tell you because you aren’t Aslaug Gunhilddotten of Lurkerhold anymore. You’re Aslaug Gunhilddotten, God-marked of Havenhold now.”

Her breath left her as if it had been punched from her. The combination of the adrenaline from her nightmare, the following sickness and the feeling of her heart falling to her feet waiting to be trampled on made her skin flush in a cold sweat. “I thought I wasn’t exiled.” The thought that she would be lost and forgotten was enough to make her wail a mourning cry.

“You aren’t. You were never, _never_ cast out. I swear to you. But answer me this: If you had the chance to come back to Lurkerhold, would you?”

“Of course I would.” The answer was obvious. She missed her people so much it gnawed at her spirit sometimes.

“I see.” Augur Hrathgur nodded complacently as if he expected that. “And when you came back to us, would you never long to roam beyond us again?”

“No -”

He held up a hand. “Think. Do not answer me blindly.”

She thought first and foremost of the Frostbacks. Snow and ice, stone and forests that stretched on until the sky met the mountains. Frostback basin during the summer while it was in bloom; campsites cradled in ancient trees and the call of birds. The mist from the swamps. The rising sun reflecting on the sea.

And then she thought of the lowlands.

The Fallow Mire - a place for the dead and the dying. Corrupt gods bound in a place that ushered in no life. Storm clouds and thunder. Wisps - wishes made but never finished, adrift and singular; waiting for someone to complete them.

Orlais in white and gold, richer beyond anything in the world that existed. Towers like giant’s fingers that scraped the clouds. Fine velvets and the lure of strange food. A rolling language of sweet water and roses. The sea at the docks that boasted warm waters.

The Hinterlands and the howling wolves. Blue sky and a burning sun overhead. A sweet smell of life and dirt in the air. Rushing streams and waterfalls spraying fresh water. The ground shaking beneath the hooves of a herd of wild horses a hundred strong.

Havenhold, where the Lady lifted her veils to show the crystals of stars she cast around her. The snow that always fell gently like a wet kiss. Great thick blankets of white flowers. Large snow-cats yowling in the darkness.

Sera giggling and smearing her paint on her face. Sparring with Iron Bull only to be thrown back several feet from a simple blow. Blackwall teaching the younger soldiers in coarse tones. Varric the skald telling tales about Hawke the Champion. Solas walking in the darkness, eyes shining while he spoke of the Fade and magic. Cassandra praying softly in the morning. Leliana singing sadly in a quiet, lonely place.

Augur Hrathgur wiped her cheeks with his thumbs. “There’s no need for that. Hush now.”

Aslaug hadn’t realized she’d been crying.

He settled his wide hands on her shoulders. “If you came back to Lurkerhold, would you feel no need to roam beyond our people?”

She swallowed but her mouth was a desert. “I don’t know.” And it felt like a betrayal of the worst kind that she knew the answer but couldn’t bear to speak it aloud to the man who had helped raise her. She would always yearn for Lurkerhold, always yearn for her people; but she had tasted the horizon beyond the Frostbacks. There was a world beyond hers that was so different, so ugly, so beautiful, and strange and complex. She could return to Lurkerhold and her people gladly, but no longer could she say she would never wish to roam different lands without lying about it.  

He nodded and his face wrinkled in understanding and maybe grief. “I know,” he said quietly. “You aren’t of Lurkerhold any longer.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Not by our choice. You already chose and it is no one’s fault. This place has stolen you from us as certainly as any husband could have.”

She hid her face to cry wrenching sobs that shook her body until she had nothing left to give.

 

...

 

Cassandra left with her chosen squad at dawn to seek out Ser Barris.

Augur Hrathgur had promised to stay and keep an eye on their people. The older generations, worn down by time or by travel, would keep the younger, more impetuous Avvar in line. The woman from Ramhornshold - Runa - gave her a polished bone pin for her hair. She’d silently twisted it into a single braid behind her head for her. She’d said nothing else. Aslaug wasn’t sure what had caused the change, but could feel the ripple in the air caused by a god-teacher. Runa hadn’t come alone, and perhaps it had spoken to her.

A round shield was presented to her from Harthold, inlaid with dwarven-wrought steel and wooden edges. An axe made from Frostback stone was given to her by the lead hunter from Falconhold.

Augur Hrathgur gifted her with a heavy wooden chest, runic symbols of protection and battle and honor carved carefully into it. Inside were her effects from Lurkerhold: the furs her mother had sewn for her, leather armor, boots, a bone comb from her childhood, a cluster of star-rock her teacher had once led her to, and the wide variation of obsidian spearheads she’d carved. He gave it to her with formally spoken words and when he set it down in her cabin, it seemed as though the burden was twice as great once he was relieved of it.

It was difficult to meet his eyes for long.

Somehow Leliana had already known of her plans to move in the afternoon and had already sent a letter to the soldiers waiting near Redcliffe. She’d even informed the others of her decision. “Varric is writing to several of his agents, and I believe Iron Bull is finishing a report to send to his people. They’ll be ready to leave this early afternoon. Your packs and mounts have already been taken care of.” Leliana had already prepared for them and little else was said.

The thought of seeing the augur’s face made her throat constrict, so she found herself walking a familiar path. Solas sat on a chair outside his cabin, quietly reading. He looked up once her foot crunched loudly over a small rise of snow. “Ah. Aslaug. I’ve been meaning to speak with you.” He stopped. His eyes, ancient yet not old, saw more than she wished. “Is there something wrong?” He asked quietly. Without an invitation, she sat on the stack of firewood leaning at the side of his cabin.

“Do you remember what I said? ‘I’m not Aslaug No One’s Daughter of Nowhere’?” Her voice sounded brittle to her, thin as a reed.

He sat up straighter and turned his entire body toward her. “I do.”

“I’m not. But I’m not Aslaug of Lurkerhold. I’m Aslaug God-marked of Havenhold.” Her voice nearly broke when she said it. “The augur said the lowlands have stolen me. And when he asked me if I were to return to Lurkerhold with them, would I not feel the need to never roam beyond my people again...I couldn’t answer him. I knew the answer in my heart. But I couldn’t speak it.” She lowered her forehead to her palms. “I’ve been stolen and I never realized this whole time.”

Solas didn’t respond but his hand reached over and gripped her shoulder more confidently than he ever had before. It was a firm grip.

“Am I so different from when I came down here?” She couldn’t be - she would have noticed if she suddenly didn’t belong to her people.

“You have...always been yourself. I can’t imagine you changing so drastically as you think. I don’t think anything has changed, truly. But you said that you had never been beyond the Frostbacks or without your people. There is a wanderer in all of us. Perhaps yours found you.” His hand was solid. He had never been so forthcoming physically.

“I am afraid to lose what I am.” She confessed to her knees.

Another hand came around to her other shoulder and tugged. She lifted her face. Solas was often dour, although kind, and so rarely showed his emotions freely. His frustration was apparent now, embers of a fire. “I have faith that you will not lose what you are. I have only ever known you as Aslaug, and I don't believe that will change. You aren’t so simple.”

His eyes looked like the open sea after a storm. A safe harbor.

With one hand, she clasped his forearm. She moved without thought and rested her forehead on his; a simple gesture of affection and gratitude. He jolted slightly but otherwise remained still. She closed her eyes. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome,” he said finally and leaned against her. He was warm and smelled of paper and himself and the lands that stole her.

Then the sun was at its zenith and the gates of Havenhold closed behind them.


	18. gr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gr - approach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit nervous about this chapter, to be honest. This is not done from the third POV following Aslaug, but rather following Solas (who I feel nervous about writing since I believe he’s a rather difficult character to write; some writers here can do it, I kind of can't). 
> 
> It is so close - Redcliffe happens next chapter. I’m so excited.

“This is amazing,” Iron Bull declared again. “It’s like it doesn’t even feel my weight.” He bounced lightly in his seat. A low, guttering groan responded. “Oh. Right. Sorry.” He patted the beast’s neck with a large hand. “ _She_ . She doesn’t even feel my weight.”

“You know, she actually does make you look tinier. From far away. Up close, you’re just that much more terrifying,” Varric said. “But the weirdest part are the hands. She picked an entire rosebush clean _with her fingers_.”

“If we had these in the army, land invasions would be so much easier,” Iron Bull said excitedly.

Varric coughed pointedly. “Can we not talk about qunari invasions? Especially focusing on making them easier?”

“Right, sorry.” Iron Bull scratched behind the war nug’s horns and she rumbled back at him. “Is it weird that I like that she talks back? Do people normally feel this way?”

“It’s a little weird, Tiny. But I’ll forgive you since she is literally the only mount not being crushed by you.”

“Asaara is the only mount for me now. Which is impressive since qunari aren’t really monogamous.”

“Did you literally just name her?”

“Yeah. It felt right.”

“What does it mean?”

“‘Wind’. She’s the fastest mount I have ever ridden.”

“Because your feet aren’t dragging on the ground?”

“I was going to say because she throws obstacles out of her way or rams straight through them without needing to stop, but also yes.”

Solas rode beside Aslaug while Varric and Iron Bull continued their back and forth. She had been extremely quiet since they left Haven. She normally enjoyed conversation or asking questions - or singing those atrocious tavern songs Sera had been teaching her - but she was uncharacteristically withdrawn and absorbed in her own thoughts.

He’d been wanting to ask what exactly she and the other Avvar mages had done at Haven during their ritual. He had seen it before, performed differently for a certain purpose and to see it again up close was - difficult. He’d tried going through Hrathgur, but had been evaded. He had been dismissed when augur Hrathgur had simply said, “A Hold falls without gods.” And that had been the end of the conversation. None of the Avvar mages, or the shamans who possessed no magic but were apparently acquainted with rituals, would speak about it.

Avvar customs were, despite Aslaug’s enthusiastic explanations about it and his own observations regarding her, a mystery.

From what he gathered, Aslaug had been informally removed from Lurkerhold. She wasn’t given the title “no one’s daughter of nowhere” which explicitly entailed a fate worse than death but she was considered to have been “stolen”.

The terminology alone was strange, but he could understand the context given their previous discussions. Her removal from Lurkerhold wasn’t equivalent to betrayal, but rather a marriage. Which in itself was odd; she was considered married to another _land_ , another country rather than a person. He supposed it was due to his perspective on the subject because it made sense to Aslaug.

She had been in some amount of shock when he’d seen her at Haven and she’d needed comfort - comfort he hadn’t been aware she would seek from him. In hindsight, he should have expected it. She trusted him above the others - and the knowledge came with a sharp twist beneath his breast he hadn’t felt in eons - and had no subterfuge with which to hide her enjoyment of his company. In moments less rare than he would admit to, they wouldn’t need any words or exchanges of culture or explanations of the world they inhabited. There would fall a certain companionable silence he savored not for the absence of sound, but for the fact that the relaxed informality that came with it was shared with Aslaug.

Still, she had surprised him profoundly when she’d leaned so close to him.

It had been a very, very long time since he’d had physical contact. Physical contact especially without the expectation of sex - the act of giving and receiving comfort with the knowledge that loneliness could be so easily alleviated. She may have been the one to initiate it, but he had taken as much as she had from it, perhaps more.

Her forehead had been smooth and cool to the touch. He could smell the salt of her tears and the oil she applied to her hair; the clean scent of her hadn’t ever been so close before. Her hair, normally bound and braided with majority of it kept wild and free behind her shoulders, had shrouded them in a canopy not unlike a forest with sunlight filtering through.

They had stayed like that for some time, longer than Solas should have allowed - but he felt that she craved physical contact and had seen her people share it easily amongst themselves - and within himself there had been a well of relief that had answered the need. Without presuming that the other person would have the proverbial knife at the ready or demand a favor; just touch without expectation.

She’d asked for comfort from him without verbalizing it, simply extended herself to him and he’d responded. A solace offered freely and taken without consequence. As if he’d been beneath the surface of a great, open sea staring up at the sun overhead and had only just risen above to breathe.

He had been without his people for a long while; wandering for a year in a world where the Elvhen were but script in storybooks or tales told around a Dalish fire. There was a measure of sympathy he found from Aslaug, a self-styled daughter of winter and woman of the mountains, that he had not expected or looked for in a human.

Dismissing her as a barbarian and then like all the others; a flitting shadow cast from a burning torch that the past still held, but she had proven herself over and over that she wasn’t such a simple person despite her protests.

Simple people, simple creatures, chose the paths of least resistance and didn’t know themselves even until their death, had no knowledge of their history and no direction for the future and cared little for change unless someone else moved for them.

Whatever the Avvar were, Solas couldn’t say. But Aslaug was herself and that was more than he had anticipated. But there were answers he wanted, _needed_ , from her.

“Aslaug,” he called over softly.

She lifted her head to look over. A curving crescent of black paint stripped over her nose and ended with its tips pointing at the ends of each of eye cradled the soft gray spots that dappled her orbital bones.

“I have a rather delicate question to ask.” He steered his hart closer to her forder. “The ritual you and the other Avvar mages participated in, what was its purpose?”

She cleared her throat. The thumbprint of white on her bottom lip trailed into a thin line to her chin that moved as she spoke. “An invocation meant to open a closed door.” She paused and her forehead wrinkled in concentration. “It’s easier to explain in my language. Give me a moment.” She seemed to roll the syllables of the common tongue explanation over in her mouth before trusting herself to speak them aloud. “It wasn’t just opening a door, it was making one. The gods down here, there’s no doors for them to lean against or knock on; they’ve been shut out for too long. The only ones that make doors for themselves are the corrupt gods that want to curl so deep inside a person that you can’t separate them. If you want a kind god, a gentle god, you have to make a door for them to enter through.”

Solas nearly felt all of his blood drain from him. He had suspected as much when he’d seen it, truly _seen_ what had happened, but to hear it confirmed aloud made it so much more. “Is that what you did?”

“A Hold dies if there’s no gods to protect it. And whatever else I am, I’m of Havenhold now. The lowlands stole me. Once you’ve been stolen, there’s no going back to your birth-Hold.” Her eyes shone wetly and she made no attempt to hide it. “I won’t forsake all the gods in the world for the silence of the Maker, so I had to do an invocation.”

“This...door you’ve created. Your people view this ritual as conventional?” The thought could have made him swallow his tongue.

“Less so. Most Holds already have doors. And in the highlands the gods aren’t so scarce or far away. You don’t just...summon a god and bind it to a Hold. It has to want to stay. It’s an honor to be chosen for a god’s space. People need gods like we need air. And they need us like they need dreams.” She smiled at him. “We need each other. We make them and they make us. We’re not meant to be apart anymore than…” She waved a hand vaguely. “A hawk is meant to be apart from the wind or trees from sun.”

A younger counterpart, still tender and humane, to a bygone age of something close to gods and those that worshipped them and a world that hadn’t shaped itself. A resemblance Solas was unsure if it was reassuring or inauspicious.

Still, there was a content happiness that softened the edges of her grief, so at odds with her normally bright countenance that he found himself pushing the thought to the back of his mind to contemplate over privately later.

“You’ve spoken briefly of gods within Lurkerhold, but you only made a passing mention of the teacher you had as a child,” Solas pivoted. “Would you mind if I asked?”

Her smile slipped briefly and she cast a look beneath her lashes at the other members of their small group before nudging her forder so close its sides nearly brushed his leg. “I was four when I came into my magic. I accidentally froze the communal dinner pot over.” She giggled nearly girlishly, laugh lines stretching. “I can still remember augur Hrathgur lifting me up: ‘Cub! You’ve put all the fish in the stew in ice again!’ I stayed with him and the older mages for a time before we did an invocation ritual to welcome a god to me. When you get a teacher, it’s a god that feels close to you. Understands you best.”

She fumbled with the deeper meaning of her explanation; likely due to common being a limiting language. He struggled much the same even after a year. Elvhen was an elegant language that told a story in a few simple words. Common was brusque. Alamarri, and its descendent Avvar, seemed rooted in blunt terms softened with an emotive meaning common had no equivalent of. It was not a beautiful language, not the way Elvhen was. But it had a heartfelt quality lost on other tongues. 

“Kindred spirits,” he offered.

She pointed at him and nodded. “Yes. My teacher came to me, and we breathed in the same body and it showed me the world as it saw it, showed me the land of dreams.” She sighed, eyelids fluttering. Dark lashes like ink strokes fanned out over her skin. “I was never alone. I was never misunderstood. I was held at the breast of my god and not found wanting. I pity the mages here. They say their Maker finds them lacking because they possess the means with which to touch him.”

To be close to a spirit in such a manner was an ancient magic, older than the paths they tread now, and in the world as it was now it was seen as dangerous and grotesque. Indeed, even in the age of the pantheon, the art was regarded with a dose of wary caution. The Avvar fully embraced it as they embraced the natural world.

“May I ask the nature of your teacher?”

Aslaug squinted in the bright light with her hair twisting in the wind and, with a smile that threatened to overtake her face in her unadulterated affection, said, “It was Loyalty.”

“It suits you,” he said quietly, and forced his gaze to slide from her. What else could he say, when he had seen her form her loyalties so strongly, so steadfastly despite her numerous protests about the culture she found herself immersed in? She didn't agree with everything about this culture, may never, but she had allowed herself to bond and be bound to the people within it. She was slow to come into such loyalty, but wasn't that one of the pitfalls of such a quality?

Sufficiently distracted from her thoughts of Lurkerhold and her name being changed, Aslaug continued to speak on the matter. Rituals to open the body and allow the spirit within to leave, rituals to force a reluctant spirit out, having a teacher to guide their new magic and learn to interact with spirits freely, the rare cases of people being unable to control their talents and simply never waking up.

“There’s the oldest god of Lurkerhold that watched over all of us. I think he was there since before Lurkerhold was first made,” she said and unintentionally attracted Varric’s ear. Solas saw the dwarf cock his head back to eavesdrop. “The god of the lost.”

“You’ve spoken of him before,” Solas agreed absently. Iron Bull was also listening, though he was considerably more subtle.

“Mm. He never took a name, so we never gave him one. If he ever had a name, we don’t know it any longer. He wanders the spine of the Frostbacks but he always come back to Lurkerhold.”

“What exactly is this ‘god of the lost’?” Varric called over.

“Were you eavesdropping?” She sounded amused.

“You know I can’t resist a story,” he chuckled.

“A skald to the marrow. The god of the lost is the...keeper of the lost. Wanderers, travelers, and all those who seek home but cannot find it. I’ve never seen him myself, but my mother had when she’d been pregnant with me. A storm raged across the mountains and with it came a minor raid from darkspawn. Lurkerhold dispersed to find our summer camp to wait it out and my mother had been separated from them. She was lost; snow-blind, wind-deaf and heavy with child. She called out to the god of the lost and sang the incantation that reaches his ears only. She said he came to her in the form of a white stag; twice the size of a war nug with great antlers threaded through with snowberries and ivy. She said he carried her through the storm but she didn’t remember much. She fell asleep on his back and when she woke, a shaman was tending to her.”

“Ah, a nice spirit,” Varric said. “Doesn’t make for exciting stories, usually, but I imagine it’s a nice surprise in real life. Supposedly Justice was a nice spirit, but I imagine he’d always been a bit harder, considering.”

A spirit of hope, Solas thought. Benevolent and kind, searching out those who still hoped for home.

Aslaug smiled slyly. “I’ve said he was an old god. He is only _mostly_ kind. He doesn’t just lead the way home with god-fire and mercy; if you’ve done him a slight he’ll lead you into the mountains and no one will ever find you. It’s what happened to a templar squad that got into their heads to go Avvar hunting. The god of the lost saw them strike down a magic-blooded boy who wouldn’t go with them willingly. So, he changed the direction of the wind and covered their tracks behind them. They were lost, going round in circles for days and when they started making marks on the trees, he made more marks further up. He led them into the Frostbacks, away from Lurkerhold, and he never returned them to their home.”

Solas pursed his lips. A nature of duality like that suggested more than a simple spirit; ancient and wily, to turn hope to despair or vice versa. Capricious natures like that didn’t survive because they were silent observers.

“That is terrifying,” Varric muttered, adjusting in his seat.

She shrugged. “He is two-natured, like most. Only corrupt gods usually ascribe to one nature. Usually.”

“Did anyone ever find them?” Iron Bull asked.

“A hunting party went out that far, herding wild harts to take for mounts, and they came across armor and weapons. No bones, no bodies.” Aslaug plucked at the fur draped over her shoulders. “Anything that they were belonged to the god of the lost.”

“So this incantation you mentioned, is it a song?” Varric asked.

“Yes. Meant only for his ears.”

“So what happens when he leads you back home? Then you sing it?”

“No. You sing the incantation to call to him for aid. And then when you’re back home, you leave offerings for him. Lurkerhold has an altar for him; cut from the heart of pine and antlers. You can offer him apples or holly or wreaths.”

“I was honestly expecting virginal sacrifices when you said offerings. That seems entirely too tame, a little boring.”

“Simpler offerings usually denote a philanthropic purpose. Although I acknowledge that his tendency to look poorly upon slights would likely mean he would expect an offering for returning someone home safely.” It was difficult to keep the disappointment from his voice and by Aslaug’s sharp eyed look, she still heard it.

“If you’re returned and make no offering on his behalf, the next time you’re lost and call upon him, he may ignore you,” she agreed.

“What did your mother offer him?” Varric asked. “Food?”

“She gave birth to me days later, and she said she laid me at his altar as thanks for saving us both. She wanted him to...see me, see that he helped guide the both of us. She made him wreaths and sang him songs, and swore to me that he came again to meet me.” She laughter softly. “My mother, I think, was in awe of him. To be fair, I think he liked her.” She tilted her head. “When my mother was gone, he mourned for her.”

“Shit. Sorry,” Varric murmured. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Aslaug shook her head. “She died well.”

Varric’s expression pulled into a combination of sympathy and understanding. “Dying well still means dying for the rest of us.”

She nodded. “During the Blight, darkspawn came out everywhere. One of them had me by the arm and was dragging me off. My mother saw - I don’t know how, but she knew I was in trouble, and she came at it with her axe. She fought it off of me and took a tainted arrow to the chest. She forced me to stay on the ground when the arrows came and just...stood over me. By the time she finally fell, there were more dead darkspawn than arrows in her.” There was a small tide of dejection that was washed away with fond pride. “She left this world the way Avvar are meant to.”

Varric sighed. “Mothers have eyes in the backs of their heads, I don’t know how but they do.”

“She always knew when I was getting into trouble.”

“You said that the...demon...spirit mourned for her?” Iron Bull asked.

“I think he did. When we gave her a Sky Burial, I saw enormous tracks in the area, larger than any stag I’ve ever seen. Augur Hrathgur thought he came to say goodbye to her, maybe make sure she got to the Lady of the Skies properly.”

Iron Bull grunted. “Isn’t that weird?”

“That a god mourned her? We don’t think so. Some gods favor some mortals. Some gods choose to stay by a mortal’s side until they leave this realm. The god of the lost...he would only answer if it was a plea for help. You know, my mother wasn’t magic-blooded, but I think he always walked where she could see him. He was fond of her, maybe.”

Solas’s lids drooped slightly and thought of the picture that would make. A faceless woman with Aslaug’s dark, wild hair walking confidently across the snow without lights or pathways to guide her. A giant white stag covered in foliage leaving physical impressions behind in the mortal world, stretching across the Fade to touch her life.

Aslaug flexed her left hand. Solas’s eyes fell to it silently and he wondered what parallels, if any, Aslaug drew from her mother’s tale.

Varric chuckled. “You know, Hawke once met a dragon that liked her.”

And so the day went.

 

…

 

From what he had gathered, Leliana had bolstered her troops with more volunteers and Avvar hunters used to the wilderness. Soldiers had poured in accompanied by several chevaliers from Orlais after Madame Vivienne had thrown her lot in with the Inquisition - an unexpected boon upon collecting the Circle mage and worth her general presence.

They camped alongside a group of scouts not far from Redcliffe, hidden in the plentiful hills of the Hinterlands, in the guise of luckless refugees who had had the misfortune to be caught in the mage-templar war and the machinations of these venatori. Supposedly the Tevinter mage they had encountered previously was waiting.

For now, they waited for Felix’s signal that was to come in the night. Poor lad. A disease that might have been cured had proper treatment been made available to him earlier. Solas knew from experience that the good died young. Whether or not that was a reflection on himself, he preferred not to consider too carefully.

It was an idiom that rang true in the past and something that was enough to give him pause for concern. Whether she knew or not, Aslaug was good. While he eschewed death, even to his enemies, Solas felt his age - ancient knowledge that seeped into his bones that his flesh belied - and knew it was inevitable. He despaired that it would be so for her as well.

Aslaug sat down next to him and by the light of the fire and the slowly setting sun began to undo her braids. She’d stripped herself of her boots and furs, clad in thin cloth and leather cords that still managed to scandalize a good portion of the Inquisition. Her face had been scrubbed of her paint.

“You know,” she began conversationally, “You’ve been in a queer mood all day.”

“Have I?” He deflected flatly.

“Mm. Ever since I told you about the invocations my people did. Didn’t offend you or you wouldn’t be talking to me. You’d be across the fire, asleep. Avoiding me,” she said sourly.

Clearly she still remembered their disagreement in the Fallow Mire. She had given him an opportunity to steer the conversation elsewhere, however. “I’ve found that disagreements are often best left alone for a small time. Tempers can be volatile if a slight is fresh.”

“I’d rather just have it out. If it comes to blows, it comes to blows, but at least it’s over and done with. You shouldn’t sleep angry.”

Solas turned to her. Most of her hair had been undone. She struggled with the single braid at the back of her head where a small knot had formed. “You’d rather fight it out - physically if necessary - rather than allow tempers to cool?”

“You fight the hardest with people you’re closest to. If such a small thing breaks a bond, it wasn’t a bond worth keeping.” She muttered in an annoyed fashion into her arm as she contorted to reach the knot.

“I prefer not to fight when possible,” he murmured, eyes drawn to the knot she was trying to untangle with the pick of her comb. It would a simple thing, he thought, to reach over and pluck the comb from her fingers and tease the knot out for her. A simple thing that had potential to be another grave misstep in his long life. He remained still.

She mumbled something incoherently and the knot finally came undone. She flipped her hair over one shoulder and dutifully began combing it out. She applied a thin mixture of oil and aloe to her hair liberally, combing and braiding it in thick loops.

“I didn’t like to fight with you. But, we angered each other so it’s only right we talk about it. Make it a little thing before it becomes something to worry about.” From her lowered position, she looked up at him. “I don’t want to disagree about something with you and let it grow.”

“I agree,” Solas spoke softly to the fall of her hair.

He could not afford the luxuries of friendship or companionship in this world; not when he would do an irredeemable thing to it once the Breach was addressed as well as Corypheus, but he wished to spare this world further cruelties.

Not so simple a person at all, he thought. It had been less than uncharitable of him to think of her as a creature, a shadow to be endured and won over that he could position where he needed most. The echo of her forehead to his still lingered, a phantom pain that brought attachment - attachment that would need to be severed in the end. If he were less selfish he would do so now, but loneliness was a yawning maw and he’d made the mistake of not recognizing that she was _herself_ until it was too late.

No.

He did not wish to see her dead. Solas could admit the same of the templars they’d fought or even the bandits. Life was precious. But there was a need regarding her life that felt distinctly personal.

He’d meant what he said to her all those months ago when this had began. Moreso now that the end was so close. He would not leave her now.


	19. skipan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skipan - (a) change  
> Flytta eller flyttas du inavlade get. (very rough translation) “Move or be moved you inbred goat.”
> 
> There are extensive lines of dialogue taken from the game, but with creative licensing to keep Redcliffe being completely verbatim. And is there more subtext in this chapter? Yes. There is.

Redcliffe village was mostly empty; houses left abandoned and many people had left their belongings behind but took their cattle or sheep. Chickens pecked forlornly at the ground and foraged at what was left. Stray cats climbed stonewalls and the sloping roofs of homes.

It was a refuge for the forgotten and abandoned. None of the villagers were in sight and that alone made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Whether the people of this place had been evicted forcefully or had left of their own accord mattered little.

The tranquil, at least, were within the Inquisition and protected. But there were no guards around Redcliffe or in the castle walls itself that belonged there.

Clad in the colors of Tevinter with their preferred style, they stalked around like parading peacocks. Swords in hand, enchanters clutching tomes, archers at the ready.

No one left was a Fereldan.

Iron Bull marked out several people who weren’t simple servants, but possible assassins waiting in the wing.

The throne room was warm with a great hearthfire, but a man who didn’t belong on the throne sat in it arrogantly. A conqueror with a false smile.

He was there, a sprint and a jump away from meeting her glaive and shield, from feeling the teeth of winter upon his neck. But that wasn’t how they would be doing this. Leliana’s people were in position. Aslaug was meant to play the limping animal for Alexius. That didn’t mean the thought wasn’t somewhat satisfying.

Two venatori guards marched before her with a young blonde man at their center. “Magister Alexius only invited the Herald of Andraste.” He stressed with a disdainful expression on his face.

“ _Flytta eller flyttas du inavlade get,_ ” she snapped at him.

His brows rose and he hesitantly looked away from her, refused to look at Iron Bull and so settled on Solas and Varric expectantly. Solas cleared his throat. “I’m here as a translator and advisor.”

Varric spread his hands with a charming smile. “Oh just your average, run of the mill recorder. The Inquisition sent me to write everything down, you know...contracts are a dwarf’s best friend.”

The blonde nodded at them but eyed her dubiously before reluctantly letting them pass.

Aslaug counted the steps. One, two, three. Her eyes stayed steady on the figure on the throne. His leg was crossed over his opposite knee and he slouched arrogantly, one elbow on the arm of the throne with his fingers pressed beneath his chin. Felix was at his right. He looked concerned, resigned, and perhaps more sickly than she remembered last seeing him.

Less than a sprint now. Ten steps and a leap.

The blonde came to a stop in front of her. “My lord Magister, the agents of the Inquisition have arrived.”

Alexius deigned to look at them and slowly stood, pacing before his stolen throne. “My friends! It’s so good to see you again.” He smiled benignly. “I’m sure we can work out some arrangement that is equitable to all parties.”

“Are we mages to have no voice in deciding our fate?” Fiona inquired, coming up beside their small party.

“Fiona, you would not have turned your followers over to my care if you did not trust me with their lives.”

“We came here for a reason, Magister.” Aslaug barely prevented from spitting it out like a curse.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Of course. The Breach must be closed, you need mages, and I can provide. Within reason, you understand. What do you offer in exchange?”

Aslaug took a step closer. Nine steps and a leap. She couldn’t draw her glaive that fast but she could break his hand with a well placed foot. She could freeze his blood.

Eight steps.

“I offer nothing. This is no negotiation, Magister Alexius of Tevinter.” Six steps and a leap. “This is a _raid,_ ” she snarled. The stark white toothy jaws of her war paint moved with her.

They slid from the shadows. A venatori agent dropped to his knees with a wet gasp. Inquisition soldiers poured out, using the edge of a blade or a strong arm to kill the remaining bodyguards. The magister’s smug attitude seemed to leave him, eyes darting to his guards and soon only the blonde attendant remained, terrified in the corner and cringing from her forces.

Alexius stood, magic cocooning he and his son. “What is this?” He snapped. “You dare?!”

Felix turned to his father. “She knows, father. I told her everything.”

Alexius wasn’t confused, simply disappointed. “Felix what have you done?” He whispered.

Aslaug took two more steps. “You don’t belong here, slaver. These lands are not yours. These _people_ are not yours.”

Alexius scoffed. “And you think they’re _yours_?”

“If they want,” she said, glancing at Fiona with intent.

“You are _nothing_ to them or to your Inquisition, but a barbarian from the mountains who stole a mark that was meant to change the world. You are nothing but a costly _mistake,"_ he spat. “A foolish savage that has no knowledge or is even capable of understanding what you’ve done.”

Aslaug bared her teeth and advanced on him. She felt his barrier resist her, felt it push her away. “You know who wounded the Lady,” she accused. He was a leap and then some away from her. She wouldn’t need her glaive to make him pay the blood-price. He was an accomplice to a disgrace to her gods and a tragedy that befell the lowlands. If he fought back, she would kill him. If he didn’t, she would have to relinquish him to the laws of the lowlands but she half hoped he would react volatilely.

“You killed their priestess. The Divine.” Alexius remained unmoved, clutching at something in his hand. “Was your intent to continue to make the lowlands war against itself?” Aggression played across her features, sharpened her eyes and tongue. “Why involve the Lady of the Skies? Why tear a wound to the land of dreams? Do you know what you’re doing to the gods brought over?” She was a pot of water, boiling over and hissing into the fire below. Fire scorched her from within, burning in and out, as liquid in her veins as her blood. His unsympathetic, inattention to the chaos he’d forced the lowlands to bear for his own likely selfish reasons for a god he wished to raise, taunted her soundlessly.

He shook his head slowly. “It was meant to be a triumphant moment for the Elder One. For this _world_.”

“Father, stop this! Do you know what you sound like?”

“He sounds exactly like what everyone thinks anyone from Tevinter should sound like. A terrible villainous cliché.” Dorian slid from behind a pillar, thoughtfully regarding the fallen venatori bodies for a brief moment.

“Dorian,” Alexius greeted stoically. “I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down. The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium from its own ashes.”

A cold shiver broke through the fevered anger flushing her body. She drew her glaive silently. “The god you seek to make,” she said in a rough voice. “What will he be god of, tell me Tevinter. Is he Glory? Is he Vengeance? Or is he Hunger, as you and yours have always been?”

“He will make the world bow to mages once more. We will rule from the Boeric Ocean to the Frozen Seas.” Alexius ignored her in favor of keeping his gaze on Dorian. “It isn’t too late, my friend. You can still join me before it begins.”

“You can’t involve my people in this!” Fiona shouted, small body nearly seizing in her anger.

“Alexius, this is exactly what you and I talked about _never_ wanting to happen; why would you support this?” Dorian entreated, stepping forward and subtly blocking Aslaug from a single clear shot.

The magister turned away and retreated several steps. His barrier continued to shimmer powerfully.

“Father, give this up. Let the southern mages fight the Breach and let’s go home,” Felix pleaded.

“No!” Alexius turned to his son. “We can’t, not yet. He has the power to save you.”

“ _Save_ me? There isn’t a cure for this father. I’m going to die. You need to accept that.” Felix spoke like a man who had lived two lifetimes, ragged and stitched together too many times and exhausted of the world he lived in.

“There is a way. He can save you, if only I can undo the mistake at the temple.” His gaze wandered over to Aslaug. “You will be removed. You should never have existed.”

His hand opened and the amulet levitated with unknown magic and a high pitch came from it as it spun in his palm.

She felt it pull at her, grasping with thousands of fingers - Dorian shouted, cutting the attack short with a slash from his staff and Alexius was thrown back but still, she was swallowed, down the gullet of some unspeakable magic.

It was a free fall of nothingness. No scent or taste - there was simply nothing but the feeling that her skin was stretched too tightly over her body.

Aslaug landed hard on her side and heard a splintering snap of wood. Water splashed up to her face and it reeked of stagnation. Dorian landed equally hard beside her but had the better fortune to land on what seemed to be the only dry spot in what looked to be a cell. Her vision blurred for a moment.

“Blood of the Elder One!” A curse from an armored, white clothed venatori.

“Where’d they come from?”

They advanced but Aslaug felt a storm curdle within her like milk turning and it gave her limbs the will to move. She was already on her feet by the time they were close enough to swing.

One erupted in flames, screaming in pain. The other one focused on the mage behind her, but Aslaug brought her shield up to bear, knocked his sword to the side and breathed ice into his lungs. Frost coated the back of her teeth and tongue. He froze, gagging at the air he couldn’t inhale before falling on his side in the water.

Her glaive was at her feet, broken in two from the landing - the hard, polished wood had given under her weight and the force of impact. She was left without it.

She placed her boot between his shoulders and let all of her weight rest on him. He gurgled quietly. If he hadn’t had a horned helmet, she would have preferred to have snapped his neck.

Dorian watched quietly before surveying their surroundings.

The man beneath her finally stilled and she eased off of him to approach the Tevinter.

“We’re in a completely different part of the castle,” he mused aloud. “This was likely not what Alexius intended.”

“It felt like those tears outside of Redcliffe Village’s gates,” she responded slowly, left hand aching and she flexed it beneath her shield. It was feverish like an infected bite.

“Hm. I think his purpose was to remove you from time completely, but since he had outside interference…? Could it be?” Dorian stood with a hand curled over his mouth. “I think he may have just used time travel to remove us. Yes...oh Alexius, you caught him off guard with that bold move. Not to mention _me_ appearing out of nowhere.”

“Removed us where?”

“The closest confluence of arcane energy? It’s probably why we’re still within the castle itself. Trust me, I vaguely recognize this; it ran adjacent to the pathway your agents went through. Alexius...simply placed us some _when_ else. We have to find out when we are, and hopefully he’s around so we can steal the amulet back and fix it.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“Mm, then I suspect we’ll have to get cozy with our new surroundings.”

Aslaug watched him keenly. “You saved me.” She meant to sound grateful but it came out aghast.

Dorian gave her a nearly bitter smirk. “Surprised?” He drawled.

“Yes.” He looked Tevinter, acted Tevinter, _was_ a Tevinter but - well. He was different, maybe.

“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.” His words were meant in jest, but she heard the undertones of an oath beneath it. He knelt beside the venatori she had drowned and lifted the key from his pocket. “Shall we leave this cell and find Alexius, and perhaps figure out _when_ we are?”

Aslaug’s attention, no longer on the other mage and already at peace with their predicament, approached the large spirals of deep red crystals. They gave off an eerie red glow that illuminated the small cell better than the lit torches.

She squatted in front of one cluster. Holding a hand inches before it, she felt heat emanating from it.

“Maker...what is that? Is that - is that lyrium?” Dorian breathed out behind her. “Why is it _red_?”  

Thinning her lips, she stood slowly and backed away from it as she would have a starving bear. The veins within the deformed spirals seemed to pound like blood traveling in a body. She had seen raw lyrium before. It had looked nothing like that. _Felt_ nothing like that.

“I’ve never heard about Orzammar exporting anything like this.”

“They don’t. The Champion of Kirkwall encountered it in the Deep Roads. Varric said it drives people mad.” She looked at him grimly. “Did you see any of that on your way in?”

He shook his head. “Certainly not.”

The cell door swung open with a loud, rusted creak.

Their ascension up the stairs was punctuated with the sound of sodden boots. Aslaug opened the door at the top and saw more of the red lyrium sprouting from the stone floor and walls like weeds overtaking an abandoned home.

Taking a left, they came upon more cells. There seemed to be nowhere in this area of the castle that was untouched by lyrium.

“Alexius has made a dreadful mess of this place hasn’t he?” Dorian touched the wall beside one of the larger formations of crystal. “It was covered in the tackiest carvings of wolves and dogs I’d ever seen.” He briefly held a hand up to the lyrium and snatched it back quickly with a sharp intake of breath. “This is not an improvement.”

There was nothing but old, broken weapons although Dorian had found a staff that was relatively easier to cast with than the one on his back. Aslaug missed the weight of her glaive but at least had her stone handaxe and the shield that had been gifted to her held true.

Their search for an exit continued on the opposite side.

It bore fruit, of a sort.

There was a gangway that led to two other doors and guarded by a venatori each. Aslaug saw that one of the bridges had been drawn up protectively and hid a third door. Likely the way out.

Dorian flung a small fireball at one of the guards who screamed and stumbled blindly over the grating before his right foot slipped and he tumbled off abruptly.

The remaining man brought up his sword but she met him in a rush of slick ice. The cold that poured off of her was enough to freeze a lowlander in their tracks temporarily.

He gasped and Aslaug, seizing an easy opportunity, lifted her foot and pushed the heel of her boot into his chest, toppling him over the edge.

She looked to each door and turned to Dorian. “Any preferences?”

“Door number one, shall we?” And he stepped to the one closest to him.

It led to the bowels of yet another crumbling dungeon.

Aslaug heard humming and the voice sounded familiar. “Varric?” She called. The way was lit only by the light of the abnormal lyrium.

The humming stopped.

“Varric?” She called out again, handaxe sliding into her palm as she moved forward to the center of another chain of cells.

“Andraste’s sacred knickers. You’re alive?” The skald breathed the words as if it pained him to even entertain the thought. He sat in the back of the cell, one arm flung over his knee but as she approached, he stood up slowly. “Where were you? How did you escape?” He began to smile and Aslaug barely returned it. His clothes, normally well made and tailored for fashion, were torn and dirtied. His face was slimmer. She broke the lock of the cell with a well placed hack.

“We didn’t escape,” Dorian corrected. “Alexius sent us into the future.”

Varric’s smile lit his face up despite their surroundings and he kept looking her up and down as if he expected her to vanish again. “Everything that happens to you is weird.”

Her response was a short bark of laughter that tasted sour. “Everything in the lowlands is odd.”

Varric shrugged and approached the chest behind them, opening it with clever fingers and finding flexible gauntlets and he lifted Bianca carefully. “Very true. You’d make for a good story, but everything is a little too unbelievable. And if I were to publish one about you, I’d have to worry about accusations of culture appropriation since nobody would believe that the Herald is actually Avvar, and that I actually gathered information without having my head chopped off.” He strapped on several rather dusty looking grenades to his belt. “And for the record, I’m not sure if any of these are expired.”

“The others,” Aslaug asked. “Where are they?”

Varric sighed loudly and rubbed the back of his neck and for the first time she took notice of the strange color of his irises. “I’ll lead you to them. They never really had us far apart.”

Varric didn’t offer information about his physical changes, or how long it had been since she’d vanished from this time, and didn’t question where they were going. Aslaug felt it prudent not to ask. The skald rarely shut up but when he did there was always a reason for it. He led the way back up the steps, taking another turn and unlocking a heavy door that led to more stairs leading down.

“What year is this?” Dorian asked.

“9:42 Dragon.” Varric eyed them both. “You both missed a very eventful year.”

A whole year. Aslaug thought, momentarily stunned. A year of war, of more tears and the Wound in the Lady, and whatever god the venatori sought to raise.

“Eventful how? If I can send us back with useful information to stop...whatever this is from happening, we have a better chance of halting all of the venatori movements and not just Alexius.”

“Yeah, see, Alexius and the venatori are smallfry. You don’t need to really worry about them. This Elder One that Alexius claims is Tevinter’s glory? He’s the one you need to watch. He invaded the south with a demon army, assassinated the Empress, tore down all the Chantries…” He remained unsmiling. “He rules over whatever is left after his shitstorm hit us.”

Aslaug widened her eyes. “He brought forth an army of corrupt gods?”

“Demon army, assassinating the Orlesian Empress...chaos in the south, and a presumed return to glory for Imperium. It sounds just like a Tevinter fairytale,” Dorian drawled.

Varric didn’t return the sentiment. “Sure. Except Tevinter didn’t come out on top either. No one did.”

Dorian fell silent and Aslaug saw his troubled expression. She reached over and squeezed his shoulder fleetingly.

“Three hundred bottles of beer on the wall, three hundred bottles of beer...take one down, pass it around…” A low baritone voice sang. It was as if his throat had been scraped raw. Iron Bull.

Aslaug and Varric stepped forward; the rogue went to his knees and worked on the lock and she cleared her throat.

The qunari warrior turned and she noticed that one of his horns had been broken at some point. More scars raked across his ribs and chest. A burn from fire or acid had eaten at the lower half of his face and neck. Whoever brought him in hadn’t done so easily.

“You.” His good eye narrowed. “You’re supposed to be dead. There was a burn on the ground and everything.”

“Alexius didn’t kill us; his spell sent us into the future. This is our future.” Dorian announced once Varric had the door open.

“Well it’s _my_ present. And in my _past_ , I definitely saw you both die.”

“Then help us make sure this never comes to pass.” Aslaug butted in before Dorian could extend their tangent. She had no idea how much time they had and she wearied of their repetitive explanations.

Iron Bull regarded her. “How.”

“If we can get to Alexius, I may be able to send us back to our proper time. We can stop any of this from happening,” Dorian briskly explained.

“And you can collect your blood-price from Alexius.” Aslaug met Iron Bull’s eye. “He must die.”

He inclined his head. “That is the best thing I’ve heard in a long time, Boss. Let me get my gear.”

He strapped on old armor and hefted a warhammer the size of her entire body when Varric asked, “Hey Tiny. Where’s Chuckles? Did they move him again?”

The qunari grunted as he did his buckles carefully. “Yeah. He’s down below.”

Iron Bull led them further into darkness.

“Your eyes. Both of you.” She couldn’t stop herself. She dreaded the answer, but needed to know what it was. If this was their future, they needed to know what was the cause.

“Red lyrium. Remember when I said it makes you crazy? Apparently, if you’re around this shit enough, it starts growing in you.” Varric’s eyes gleamed, rolling ruby marbles in his eye sockets.

“Maker’s breath. Alexius did this to all of you?”

“And then some. Those mages he so kindly took under his wing? The ones not so good at fighting? Yeah. It’s partially why you’ll find a pile of clothes without a body, or all that damn lyrium sprouting off everywhere. It eats through everything,” Varric muttered.

The cells were damper here and clumps of ghoul’s beard dripped overhead. Aslaug felt a wave of fatigue suddenly; as if her body had been submerged in quicksand and she was sinking steadily.

“Don’t touch the doors.” Dorian eyed them dubiously. “They’re coated in magebane. They drain your mana from you. Slowly. It is a rather...painful poison if you come into contact with it.”

Iron Bull grunted. “They had to. Solas wasn’t making life easy for them.” He cracked his neck. “He was huge pain in their ass.”

Her chest tightened at the thought of him caged in these behind bars that dripped in poison. She minded the ghoul’s beard plants that curled down and gave them a wide berth. They stunk of Blighted taint.

“Who’s there?” Solas’s voice sounded distorted.

“Solas?” She called back and came to a stop in front of what she assumed to be his cell.

The same sinister red had overtaken his blue eyes. He inhaled and jerked away before sliding forward a step. “You’re alive? We saw you die,” he whispered, eyes on her face warily.

Though he spoke to her, Dorian was the one who answered. “The spell Alexius cast displaced us in time. We just got here, so to speak.”

“Can you reverse the process? You could return and obviate the events of last year. It may not be too late…” Solas nodded to himself. Aslaug saw that he too bore new scars. His lower lip had been slashed open and the thin scar curved across to his jaw. His nose similarly bore a slash across the bridge.

Varric popped the lock off and slid the door open. He smiled ruefully up at Solas. “Good to see you Chuckles.”

His expression didn’t change. “It is good to see you as well, Master Tethras.”

His eyes wandered to Aslaug and her hand hovered over his bicep; unsure that this person who had Solas’s face would even welcome her camaraderie. He surprised her by grabbing her hand and gripping her fingers hard enough for her knuckles to ache. He wasn’t preventing her from touching him. He had simply caught her first. A tremor from his arm went through her hand. “It is good to know that you are alive.”  

She swallowed hard at the emotion that colored his tone. “We will undo this,” she rasped. Her heart pounded at its cage from the look in his eyes. 

His face hardened and his voice rose. “None of this world may be allowed to come to pass.”

Varric cleared his throat. “Let’s get you something to fight with Chuckles. I see they didn’t leave your staff down here with you.”

“They broke it, I believe.” His hand remained clasped over hers. His thumb wandered over the prominent bump of her knuckle. “I will make do until we pass the armory; we will come to it before we arrive at the throne room. Alexius will likely be in there. He rarely leaves it.”

“How do you know?” Dorian cocked his head and glanced at their hands momentarily.

Solas’s upper lip curled. “Because I have wandered the castle.”

“He means when he flew the coop and started killing off Alexius’s henchmen looking for the exit,” Varric translated wryly.

Dorian’s brows climbed and Aslaug felt her own do the same.

“ _You?_ ” Solas valued all life; his regret even extended to their most foolish and bloodthirsty of enemies. To imagine him escaping - what sounded like multiple times - and killing people in cold blood seemed out of character. Or perhaps it was a facet of his; hidden in his layers of empathy and compassion and this world brought out the worst of him. A not so small part of her railed against the thought; he was a sensitive soul and it must not have been easy, and this unkind world had twisted him.

He seemed...not quite sheepish at her exclamation, but approaching remorse at the revelation.

“Solas can kick a lot of ass,” Iron Bull said in approval. “He broke me out once and we ended up tearing through the dining hall. He nearly made it out too.”

“We do what must be done. We must hurry, before the Elder One is made aware of your presence.” His hand tightened over hers to the point of pain.

She hissed through her teeth and his grip relaxed.

“Forgive me.” His hand slipped from hers slowly.

Solas was at the front with Aslaug at his side, Iron Bull behind them and Dorian quietly interrogated Varric in the back.

Solas had never headed the group before. He preferred the rear, or the middle. But he led confidently; not once did he turn to look at any of them for direction.

One foot in front of the other, no sound was made, and he prowled as if it were his nature to do so. He made no effort to hide his stride. It was the same motion he’d revealed when they’d first encountered Dorian.

She would say that he had changed, but perhaps he hadn’t. She couldn’t claim to know all of him.

“Varric told us what happened,” she said, if only to break the uneasy silence she had never experienced near Solas.

He didn’t respond immediately. “Chaos originated from the south and spread outwards. The Elder One didn’t simply tear this world apart in his mad quest for _godhood,_ ” he spat, “he woke things which should have stayed asleep.”

“The Tevinter Old Gods?” She thought of her dream about the eye that watched her through the mark in her hand and used her body as a fledgling used an eggshell.

Solas glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “There are things older than myths; things that have no names that anyone in this age can recall.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

He returned his attention to the front. “No. It wasn’t.”

They crossed to the other side of the gangway. The scent of dust and rot was so strong she could taste it on the back of her throat. Red lyrium bloomed from the walls and the floors. Aslaug and Dorian were careful to avoid them. The heat and humidity were nearly unbearable for her.

Grand Enchanter Fiona was there. Short of breath and appearing as though she would crumple to the ground and never rise again, with crystals sprouting from her body like fungus. She shakily raised her head. “Impossible.” She whispered.

Aslaug’s eyes widened. “Enchanter.” That the woman was alive was nothing short of a miracle, or an abomination. The lyrium had burst through her chest and abdomen at some point; throbbing with stolen life.

“I saw you disappear into the rift. We thought you died.”

“Alexius cast us from that time into this one.” Fiona’s breaths were drawn painfully, her eyes lacked focus and Aslaug could tell from the telltale clench of Solas’s jaw that he knew that this was the fate of the infected. “We’re trying to get back.”

“Herald...if you are able to reverse this, please let the mages join you. I never wanted this. I only wanted a better life for my people. A fair chance. Do not let this be our end.” Fiona laid her head on the wall behind her. “Seek out your spymaster. The Sister. She is here, somewhere.” Her body shuddered and her eyes closed. Although she still breathed, she looked and smelled like the dead.

Solas’s hand fell on her shoulder, thumb pressed to the dip where her neck sloped up.

Aslaug’s expression reflected her thoughts. Miserable and grief-stricken, she pleaded. “This cannot be your fate,” she said, spearing him with her gaze. Brilliant, sensitive Solas who read her messages aloud and listened to her people, and spoke to her of the ancient elvhen empire, who looked upon magic much the way she did - no. This couldn't be the way he died; food for a parasite that summoned madness. 

Solas considered her with an intensity that crawled beneath her skin to see her bones. Whatever he saw made him waver between a nearly tender expression and some blend of furious sorrow. “We are already lost, Aslaug. There is no future for any of us here.”

 

…

 

“ _How did the savage know about the sacrifice at the temple? Answer!_ ”

“ _Never.” A whip cracked the stillness of the air and Aslaug perked up at the voice - Sister Leliana with her singing voice and quiet, dark moments of prayer._

 _“There’s no use to this defiance, little bird. There’s no one left for you to protect._ ”

“ _You’re wasting your breath._ ” Another crack, another shout of pain.

“ _You will talk, damn you!_ _You will break_.”

Aslaug yanked the handle and beheld the scene before her; Leliana or her living ghost hung from chains limply while a venatori agent held a knife to her throat.

“I will die first.” The Sister caught sight of them beyond her tormentor then. “Or you will.” And she found strength enough to lift her body and wrap her legs around his neck, constricting like a snake before snapping his neck.

His body slid to the floor. Aslaug unlocked her shackles with the bronze key that had been scattered along the numerous knives and lashes on the table.

Leliana’s appearance revealed her torture; her armor and clothing were but rags that barely clung to her flesh. She was made of whipcord muscles that had nearly completely wasted away, her skin was a map of wrinkles and leathery scar tissue.

She sneered wordlessly at Dorian upon meeting him. She granted Solas a brief nod and searched Aslaug. “You are alive,” she stated without inflection.

“I am. Alexius made a mistake.”

“Good. Let it be his last.” Leliana crouched and withdrew flasks of elfroot, downing two of them immediately before handing her a key. “He will be in his throne room.” Her eyes wandered to the elven mage. “Solas should know the way.”

“That’s it? No questions? You’re not wondering how we got here? Or how we mean to go back for that matter?” Dorian’s bewilderment wasn’t shared by anyone. Aslaug saw the knots of scars along Leliana’s face and neck, smelled her unwashed body.

“No.”

“We’ve heard that this Elder One somehow commanded an army of demons and assassinated the Empress...is there anything else?” Subtlety didn’t suit him.

“Stop talking.”

“I’m _just_ asking for information.” Dorian held his hands up in peace.

Leliana turned on him. “No. You’re trying to fill silence. This place isn’t real to you. This is the future you hope never comes to pass. But this isn’t my future. Not ours.” She gestured widely to the others as she stared Dorian and Aslaug down. “This is what _happened_. So do not patronize me. You did not live through it. You know _nothing_.”

Aslaug grit her teeth, fought the urge to bite her tongue. “Tell me what must be done. When we return, how do we stop it?” Their red eyes, lyrium growing out of them like a garden overtaken by weeds, torture and madness and cages - “Tell me how to save you.”

Leliana’s manner didn’t change but her tone was considerably gentler. “You cannot save us here. But when you go back, you must stop him from killing the Empress. If Orlais falls to chaos, we lose an army. And he must not be allowed to raise his demons - no force in Thedas will be able to withstand its assault.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, throat constricting as though someone gripped her there, squeezing all of her soft emotions from her like poison.

“There is nothing for it,” Leliana said. “We must move. The Elder One will kill you if he knows you are here.”

She limped heavily, her left foot was twisted in an awkward way, but her uneven lurch contained a deadly resolve.

“Do you know what became of Felix?” Dorian interrupted their silent trek through what looked to be a small mess hall.

Aslaug listened with half an ear as she tore a wickedly barbed spear from the clutches of a suit of armor. Solas plucked an abandoned staff from bones.

“Yes.”

“And you won’t tell me?” Dorian asked, offended and bewildered. Leliana set her bow aside and turned a lever to open a gate that led to more stairs.

“You will see soon enough.”

There was a brief skirmish - two adolescent mages Aslaug vaguely recognized from Redcliffe gave themselves over to corrupted gods as hollowed skins.

Aslaug hadn’t had time to test her newly found weapon. Solas had reached into the land of dreams and pulled from it a hand that laid the abominations to waste with god-fire. She flinched when the attack was executed and left their enemies in smoldering piles of charcoal and black blood.

Solas regarded the scene without expression. “Quickly,” he urged, pressing a hand to the small of her back.

Up more steps marked in lyrium and blood, through another broken gate - and she saw it.

Her mouth opened and she wasn’t sure if she meant to scream or gasp.

Above her, the Lady’s body was twisted; broken and defiled and her corpse was scattered with tears from which the land of dreams threatened to open wider.

The Lady of the Skies was a goddess, mother of the skies, keeper of the dead, no more. She was a carcass without a face, without flesh, without a skeleton, and there was nowhere that she would be laid to rest.

“Maker’s breath, the Breach…” Dorian whispered behind her.

Aslaug turned to Varric, to Iron Bull, to Leliana, before she found Solas; needing his calm reassurance and easy wisdom but his eyes were not of the sea and his countenance didn’t bring her comfort. He was liquid fire poured into a vessel; his within-self was smoke and starlight as it had been in her time but it was muddied with touches of unquenched wrath and an unending well of regret.

The mark on her hand writhed in urgency and a tear opened before her eyes and from it spilled lost mortals who wished for a god but found none and died from it; groaning with shadow claws swiping the air before them.

A terror god clawed its way from the ground in a spill of green light.

Its sightless eyes found her, maw opened to scream but she lashed out immediately with a shock of lightning, following it through with a brutal attack of spear and shield and snow to trap it while she broke it.

The shades were ended, and yet another tear spat out more corrupt gods.

Aslaug seized the hook within the tear and pulled, pulled until it snapped shut like a heavy chest.

A side door led into the Redcliffe castle itself, stairs wound down. Torches flickered with dying flames, mold and dust fought for dominance within.

And beyond a final door was a hall that she remembered entering before. Venatori enchanters cast barriers and flung fire at a wide tear from which corrupt gods scrabbled from - mortal wishes unmade and turned poison, gods of wrath and terror, all converged on the mages within. Aslaug hung back and watched them turn on each other.

The mages would all die. But they would at least thin the horde that lay waiting.

Without any gods of their own to protect or aid them, they were torn apart; savaged and clawed and burned until their bodies lay forgotten on the floor. The last terror god standing turned and scented them, pointed a talon their way and a god of wrath roared, shades of the dead moaned as they slid to them. They moved as if underwater with long swipes of their arms, reaching out -

Leliana had three arrows buried in the terror god and the Iron Bull barreled his way through the small wave of shades, swinging his warhammer and laughing at the joy of vicious movement. Varric loaded a grenade on Bianca and fired - it hit the terror god and splattered, making a noxious perfume that slowed the remaining shades.

Solas twisted the land of dreams again and the floor of the hall erupted in god-fire; dark and green and malicious.

Dorian and she were negligible participants in the fight. She managed to kill a shade that slithered too close at Solas’s side and the Tevinter mage summoned a wall of fire to keep the rest at bay.

When she shut the tear, Solas had already strode to the door of the throne room. “The door has changed.” He cocked his head. “Its like is ancient, but vaguely familiar. We will need pieces of a key to open it,” he commented curtly, running a hand down it lightly.

“What was there before?” Leliana asked.

“The first time, it had only been a door with a bar. The second, it was gilded in dwarven-wrought metal and wards.” Solas exhaled through his nose. “This will not open for anything less than what was intended to unlock it.”

“Will this fit?” Dorian called out. He held up a small, ruby colored shard. He slotted it in one of the little carvings and it glowed. “Seems as though we need to find the rest.” He tapped on the door. “I imagine that his other little henchmen roaming around have various pieces, yes? Alexius has to eat.”

“Then we will find them in palace wings. The servants and guards rarely leave their halls unattended.”

Leliana guided them forward and Dorian spoke to Iron Bull of the details of the events that happened; something Aslaug was positive she should have been doing but her distraction was something she attributed to Solas’s nearly unsettling attention on her. His shoulder brushed hers as they walked, his hand would occasionally reach out to brush the back of hers or press his knuckles to the dip of her spine, protected by her leather and thin layer of fox fur. He was not intimate in the way she was used to; brash words and bold deeds, but by his standards he was communicating to her in so little words. She had no defense against it. He had always been attractive enough that had he not held himself so far away, so remote as the starlight he felt like, she would have offered to share her bedroll. 

But he had, except in the rare moments of tenderness where they connected on a level Aslaug found rare even at Lurkerhold. 

The question was at the tip of her tongue, poised to be asked, but she was a fumbling foal in spring. The words refused to be said, sticking in her throat like honey. 

Solas himself had nothing to say about it; doing so as if this had been commonplace before and meeting again had made it so. 

Aslaug thought she knew why he was doing it, but she couldn't be certain; perhaps he only wanted to reassure himself that she was real, but a part of her doubted it. She couldn’t claim to know his mind, and so pushed the thought away and focused on the moment.

Dorian had been right. The enchanters within the wings each held a key-shard.

Both of them hung back in the fights and only provided peripheral support; something she was as unaccustomed to as she was watching Solas command the field with an expertise she had never envisioned him having before. Now that she’d seen it personally, it was difficult not to imagine the Solas from her time doing so.

He was brutal in an efficient manner and strategized a plan of attack within moments. He was glorious in combat and the telltale thud of her heart wasn’t a surprise. It wasn’t the right time for it - for any of it - but still, she knew her gaze lingered on the stretch of his body and her mouth dried when she watched him fight from a distance. She doubted it was a surprise to Solas either. He’d caught her and watched her in turn. She hadn’t noticed, before, until she felt unable to look away from him; the way he studied her form while she fought, listened to her call out in her language.

They circled one another remotely in a place where it would have no chance for a beginning and would never amount to anything. The thought alone was enough to make her look away.

The shards fit the keyholes and the door radiated then swung open with the sound of stone grinding against stone.

Alexius stood before the throne with his back to them and looked less like the victor and more like an old man slumping beneath a great weight.  

A king of no one and nothing but ruin.

Felix, wild eyed and incoherent, crouched at his side like a fearful pet.

Disgust like bile rose and she found herself speaking. “Did your god grant your wish, Tevinter?”

Alexius didn’t speak for a moment. “Look around you, Avvar, and you will have your answer. I, at least, have my son.”

Aslaug watched the creature he called his son scuttle backwards, shuffling on all fours. “No you don’t,” she murmured and she understood then. What lengths a man would go to for his son, were but the same lengths a woman would go to for her daughter. Her heart - too tender, perhaps made so because it was always as such or the lowlands had ruined her - clenched.

“I knew you would be back. I didn’t know when, but I knew I hadn’t destroyed you. My final failure.” Alexius still hadn’t faced them, he simply stood before the fire.

“Was it worth it? Everything you did to the world? To yourself?” Dorian was colored in grief, expression pinched in pain.

“It doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters. All we can do is wait for the end.”

“What end? The end your god never said would come?” She challenged.

“Our end. The Elder One comes for me, for you, for us all.” He shook his head slowly.

Leliana had slipped from the shadows and gripped Felix by the collar of his tunic, lifting him with a knife to his throat. In the angle of the firelight, she saw the ravages of his body, and she knew what sickness he had had. She’d seen its like before.

“Felix! Don’t hurt him!” Alexius flung a hand out beseechingly at Leliana.

“ _That’s_ Felix? Alexius, what have you done? Do you even know?”

“I saved him. It was the only way. Please don’t hurt my son, I’ll do anything you ask.”

She saw delusion in his eyes. And heartbreak. She wondered if her mother would have looked the same if the darkspawn had taken her instead. “You trapped him. He was never saved.” Leliana drew the blade across his throat.

Alexius howled and pitched the woman from him. He turned on the others and opened a tear above their heads.

Iron Bull and Varric moved to begin killing the gods that tore from the rift, and Solas placed them in a barrier. Aslaug dodged the fire Alexius hurled at her.

“You will die barbarian. What do you think your Inquisition will do with you even if you succeed?” He jeered.

He staggered under the strike of Aslaug’s misbegotten weapon glancing off his barrier and she felt the trappings of chaotic magic try to lull her into losing her focus. Solas called upon tendrils that gripped Alexius and dragged him closer. Aslaug let him sap his barrier and Alexius tried to flit away in a flurry of ash but Solas caught and held him fast.

The magister, unable to reach Solas, pitched fire at her which was deflected with ease by the barrier Solas had cast over her - and she slid the blade's end into his heart. He wheezed and an armored hand reached up to bat her away weakly. She leaned into the strike and the glaive buried deeper.

With a final choke, Alexius rolled his eyes to where Felix lay in a puddle of his own black-touched blood. He mouthed a single word. She followed the man down to the floor and slid the spear from him.

Dorian crouched at her side and pulled the amulet from his hand. “He wanted to die, didn’t he? All those excuses...he never believed he saved Felix. He just couldn’t not believe it, after everything.”

She had no words that would comfort him except one possibility. “If you can get us back, my augur may be able to help your friend.” The chance was slight; she had no idea how well those powders Alexius gave his son worked, how strong Felix was, how long he'd been sick...but the world had taken enough good men. She could at least _try_. 

“Felix? But how? He has the Blight.”

“You say it as though there aren’t people who live in places that aren’t plagued by darkspawn even without a Blight. Send us back, Dorian. We can at least try to help him.” She considered the body of Alexius. “I can make no promises for the man who traded the world for something that wasn’t even his son.”

He nodded. “I know.” He inspected the amulet. “This is the same one we made in Minrathous. Give me an hour to work out the spell he used and I should be able to open the rift.”

“An hour? That’s impossible. You must go now,” Leliana spat and with those words, the ground shook ominously and a screech Aslaug had heard only once before in her life resounded. Rocks tumbled from the roof and broken pillars. “The Elder One.”

“You cannot stay here.” Solas urged, and looked meaningfully at Iron Bull and Varric. Nothing was said, but the qunari and the dwarf both turned to the entrance and strode through the other side. “We will hold the doors. Leliana, you’ll be the last line of defense.” Solas caught her eye and held it; a moth to a flame and she wasn’t certain which one either of them were. He stepped forward abruptly and cupped the back of Aslaug’s neck, tangled in her dark hair and pressed his forehead to her. A fresh memory of her leaning into him at Havenhold and she could smell him; himself and the lands that stole her. She wondered if she smelled the same to him. He breathed in. “I was wrong. I was wrong about...so many things. Forgive me.” 

She blinked - wrong about what? “I don’t understand.” She slipped a hand to his shoulder, one settling on his chest over his heart to feel its strong beat. 

Solas gave her a bitter smile, thumb rubbing circles on her nape. “I know.” He removed himself as quickly as he had attached himself and pushed her in Dorian’s direction. Aslaug stared after him as he left, mouth parted and the question caught like a fly in amber.

He didn’t look back before the doors to the throne room slammed shut.


	20. afroð

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> afroð - loss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the rather late update (and bear with me, it hasn't been edited yet); lots of things were going on but I did say I would update before Christmas. This chapter got entirely too big as a standalone, so I’ve cut into parts (being that this is the final chapters that take place in Haven). I’m still visiting family so I figured I'd get this out when I could, so the next chapter will be up after the visit is done. Thank you all for reviewing, bookmarking, leaving kudos, and reading of course! 
> 
> And more subtext!

Triumph, Aslaug learned, was a sour taste that stuck to the back of her throat like bile. It was a hot stone on her chest, the cold sweat that slid down her spine.

Dorian had reworked the amulet and sent them back - but not before Aslaug saw what became of her Holdmates in their final, brave, selfless hours so full of desperate hope she could’ve have choked on it.

A last charge into the fray, Iron Bull had been cleaved nearly in two. Varric shot arrow after arrow, catapulting the last of his poisons and grenades and setting off traps before a great creature of pain and sorrow dragged him asunder. Leliana had died after losing an arm to a well placed shot, chanting and murmuring to her silent god.

Solas hadn’t died as easily as the others; he'd been covered in gashes that bled freely, panting wetly in a way that gave away internal damage, he’d summoned god-fire so powerful that the door and the throne room they stood in caught alight and it consumed him with it. His gaze had been drawn to her as the fire that burned and chilled crawled along the floor and reached up his legs. She knew what that look was; she’d seen it reflected in her own face when she invoked her gods and received an answer.

She would have bolted to him, would’ve tried to draw him from the god-fire unlike any she’d witnessed being summoned, but Dorian held her fast and flung her into the maw of time. Solas still stood there; awash in reds and greens and allowed the fire to swallow him whole.

The moments after were a blur. Stricken as she had been by what she had seen in the future without her and her god-mark, the moments thereafter were dull and not enough to completely pull her to the present. She moved as if in a fog, aware and seeing nothing but scant inches from her nose.

Alexius gave up. Felix comforted his grieving father who mourned his son as though he were already amongst the dead.

The king of Ferelden ordered the mages to leave and Aslaug protested quieter than she would have previously. Her mouth formed words she barely heard. She offered to make the mages her people. She met Fiona’s softening gaze and remembered red lyrium blooming from her. The bargain was struck although she felt the disgruntled gaze of Iron Bull at her side; she knew it came from a place of fear, insomuch as a farmer feared a soldier with a sheathed blade.

Varric simply looked happy it was over, while Solas met her eyes warmly.

She looked away from all of them, searching out Dorian instead and found him frowning delicately in the direction of Alexius who was being led away in shackles and chains. Felix coughed into his palm.

She pushed away from her Holdmates, from the people who would now be hers too, to navigate over the fallen bodies of the venatori to clasp Felix’s shoulder. He looked abashed. “My apologies my lady.”

Dark blood spotted the handkerchief he’d held to his mouth. “You’ve a sickness my people know something about,” she began, “I offer this to you now: my - Lurkerhold’s augur awaits us in Havenhold. He’s dealt with the taint before. He may be able to help.”

He smiled sadly. “I’m afraid it’s quite a ways along.”

“Do you not wish to try?” She jutted her chin at the magister. “You, the son whose father would trade the world for?”

His lips thinned. “I’ve accepted my death, my lady. There is no shame in that.”

She nodded quickly. “I know. I offer...a kindness. There is no shame in that, either. It isn’t a promise, either. Just.” She twisted her lips, searching for the right words in common. “You are a good man. The world has precious little of that.” Gods above and around was that an understatement. The lowlands were full of strife and pain and callousness beyond what she had understood before. Less so that her heart was tender, and more to do with a world she hadn’t completely comprehended.

His eyes dropped to the floor. “Then, with your leave my lady, I would like to...see your healer.”

She shook his shoulder gently. “You have it.”

Dorian looked on curiously and she tilted her head at him briefly before striding over to the others to make arrangements with Fiona and the mages.

Varric congratulated her, made a smart remark about how his readers would never believe that an Avvar mage brought the mage-templar war to a close.

Solas was at her side, further away than his future-self had been. Enclosed in him were smoke and starlight. The edges of the god-fire that burned as bright as the sun were not there as they had been in the other place. His rage and sorrow and regret didn’t burn as a beacon. He was, once again, the Solas she knew; the sea after a storm that brought boats gently to harbor once more. But he was more than that, she knew now. He was calm waters and fire all at once. This Solas was harder to read though, harder to approach in his implacable way. 

Aslaug, even as she made plans with Fiona and the Inquisition soldiers to make for Havenhold again, turned what she knew of Solas over in her mind, again and again. He was both, she believed. Did that mean both had apologized for the same mysterious thing? Or had the apology only come from something that took place elsewhere?

Solas must have sensed her pensive retreat into her mind and left her be although she caught the curious cock of his head. He was more inquisitive now than he had been in the other place. He lacked intensity here. His eyes didn’t burn to her marrow here.

Reaching Havenhold would be a task in itself, but Leliana and Josephine had moved in tandem to lessen the burden. Carts pulled by sturdy Fereldan forders had been summoned, the horsemaster’s people had offered their own mounts to hurry the process along; likely only thankful that the mages were leaving their farmlands.

Fiona rode a sturdy mountain pony and shepherded her people. Less than Aslaug thought there would be, but enough for a small army. She had been assured rather hastily by the woman that more mages would follow now that the free mages were allies of the Inquisition.

Aslaug had little to say to any of them. She was only grateful that her forder needed little of her attention once she guided it on the familiar path, spearheading the vast group she had claimed as hers. Dorian, strangely enough, rode beside her. “You look dreadful," he said by way of concern, brow pinched.

“I feel it,” she agreed, not quite slumping in her saddle. She eyed the Tevinter mage’s kit. The horse he rode was finely bred with long, lean legs and a scalloped face she hadn’t seen on a horse before. The mare was white and gray and bore a leather saddle, golden ropes and a thick blanket with tassels. “What manner of horse is that?”

“A purebred of Tevinter stock. They aren’t really allowed outside of Tevinter for fear of being bred into lesser stocks and thinning the overall bloodline or something equally irritating to recite.” Dorian patted her neck affectionately. “I simply couldn’t leave her behind. She was, besides perhaps Felix, the only living being I’d miss from home.” He gave a critical eye to her mount. “Not to mention that the mounts in Ferelden are...homely.” He shivered dramatically.

Despite herself and the dark thoughts that crowded her mind, she found it in herself to roll her eyes hard enough that she was surprised they stayed in her head. “Being pretty won’t save her from being someone’s breakfast if she can’t fight.” She paused for good measure. “Won’t save you either, for that matter.”

“ _What?_ ” He looked aghast, then pleased. “Pretty, you say?”

She felt her lips twitch. “All that and that’s what you want to focus on?”

“It was of the most import, of all that you had to say.” He traced his mustache with an artful finger. “I am a beautiful figure, after all.”

Her response was dry, “Head full of wool.”

Dorian made some sort of affronted screeching sound.

 _It’s strange_ , Aslaug thought, _to take comfort in him of all people_. _Or is it stranger that he’s taking comfort in me_? She remained where she was and so did he; companionably arguing in teasing tones until their enormous group made camp far into the Hinterlands.

It was difficult to even look at her Holdmates; to know the cost of failure and understand what price they would need to pay. Of all of them, Solas’s gaze was the hardest to meet and hold. The man who held her, touched her as though there were unspoken things he wished to be speak of but there was no time, no future for it, and so remained silent was once more her mild-mannered scholar who toed the edge of friend and something else. 

He didn’t have the red haze of lyrium over his eyes; he didn’t fight with the same brutal efficiency as he had before. He was not the Solas of the other place; filled with rage and grief so potent it tainted his within self; starlight turned to fire and smoke to ash.

She knew he looked to her at times, curiously catching her gaze and wondering what exactly she was thinking when she shied from speaking with their Holdmates and him specifically, wondered why she looked at him as if she expected him to die at any moment.

Aslaug knew little of the great jaws of time being forced open so that petty mortals could see down its gullet; but she understood the implication of what ruin glimpsing the future could bring. She had no wish to see her Holdmates dying ingloriously for a rotting world, no wish to see Solas; friend, advisor, augur, and whatever else he was to her, raising god-fire to devour him as readily as his enemies. There had been a kind of desperation, threaded through with steel-wrought resignation and determination, to that other Solas. And the way he’d looked at her as he burned…

Aslaug remained at Dorian’s side throughout their journey, occasionally asking him about Tevinter magic and spying obviously on the once-Circle mages as they cast and worked. Dorian was full of questions about the Avvar. ‘Wild magic’ he called it as if magic were something that could be tamed in the ways a horse could.

She sought comfort from the gods in her dreams, but was returned to crystals growing from bodies like flowers, the carcass of the Lady above her and the red, red eyes that stared at her from an enclosure of green god-fire. She often forwent sleep; the gods were less kind in the lowlands. Dorian, at least, was company enough to her sleeplessness and shared in her misery of exhaustion on the road.

On the ninth day on the dirt road, Aslaug approached the lowland free mages cautiously as they spoke amongst themselves with scrolls and tomes balanced on their knees.

She still couldn’t make out all the words in their language; short and unfeeling as their language was to the heartfelt sincerity of the Avvar, but she recognized some of the words scribbled poorly on their vellum.

“…ice magic is much more difficult; it is very brittle and delicate and not entirely useful for combat,” a woman said with a frown. “If you load it into a barrier, the barrier will shatter. What good is it?"

“I find it useful for traps. Better than grease, I think. Easier to control and harder to see.” A man, now.

“I prefer fire. Far more useful in combat; scares away wildlife, and even templars think twice before attacking when they see a good wall of it.”

Aslaug lingered behind them, cocked her head down at the drawings in the book. They were using winter all wrong; no wonder it was of no use to them. As clumsy with it as a toddler with a blade. “If you use it as a coating on your barrier or as spikes, you’ll have an easier time of it.”

As one, the small group gathered around a tiny cauldron froze and slowly turned their eyes to her.

“Oh,” one of them said softly. “You’re her.”

Aslaug stepped over the log and sat next to the woman to peer curiously at the drawings within. “You see that? They’re using it all wrong. If you just slip it into a barrier like that without casting the cold first, it makes the ice thin and when the barrier fails, it shatters on you like glass. You’re supposed to cast a barrier and let the cold build on its own, so when you cast a barrier again it holds. Barrier’s stronger that way and it gives you time to make sure that when the ice shatters, it shatters _away_.” She tapped a finger on the diagram.

No one spoke and she settled back and waited for a response.

The man cleared his throat. “That makes sense. You…wouldn’t mind if we asked questions? Not many people in the Circle we came from understood much of or used ice magic. The Circle encourages the use of fire…”

“What with Andraste’s connection to it the Chantry prefers mages using it. They think it’s holier," an elf said, rolling his eyes.

Aslaug leaned forward eagerly. “What would you want to know?”

“I’ve heard the Avvar mages can use ice to freeze your blood. That can’t be possible, can it? Unless you’re using demons or blood magic.”

Aslaug’s answering grin was a slash of lips and teeth.

On the eleventh day, it rained and Felix came to sit beside Dorian. They spoke privately despite all eyes lingering on the two Tevinters; a sight stranger than an Avvar walking amongst them freely. She left them alone, wandering the numerous camps set up side by side and though her Holdmates gave her curious, suspicious glances, they didn’t press her for answers. They all looked similarly pitying in their own ways; each were too scarred by the lives they’d led to not recognize the walking wounded when they saw one, she supposed.

Solas was the worst. He never cornered her but seemed to find her effortlessly in the dozens of bodies she was surrounded by. His look was knowing, curious, with a definite edge of concern. There were other things there, but she couldn't identify them. He was carefully hidden behind blank expressions, unlike his other-self who had no time left to waste any energy on that. 

It was still disturbing to see him without that intensity he had radiated in the other place. His movements here were languid and easy but Aslaug suspected he consciously did that. The fluidity of his gait and its stealthy purpose from the other place had been reflected at least once here. His gaze didn’t sear her and his magic felt distant and cool, warm from afar – it was not the boiling roil of liquid fire gone sour.

He was the same, or different, or both. Aslaug caught herself stepping in his direction aimlessly; drawn to him the same way she found herself wandering the Frostbacks in her dreams, but she managed to steer away.

Cowardice was not something she attributed to this situation, and while she vaguely knew that wasn’t the reason for her avoidance to her Holdmates, she couldn’t help but feel like a craven woman. She simply didn’t wish to see the dead stand and speak before her with their eyes clear of disease. Not yet. To do so…without her even having given them their funeral rites in the other place –

They’d still died. Died well, but to continue on as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t seen the loyalty in their final hours, in the depths of their hearts, and speak with their living selves seemed to take their sacrifices for granted.

She walked with the lowlander mages, curious of their techniques and somewhat fascinated by how well they cast and controlled fire. Flames licked from their staffs and while she had considered their movements boring and predictable before, she saw now there was a certain aged grace to them.

Techniques that had lasted hundreds of years.

Lowlanders perhaps didn’t pass their history on the same way Avvar did, but she could appreciate seeing them enact such history in front of her.

 

…

 

The Lady’s twin daughters, Frid and Run, began to show overhead on their eleventh day out, still four nights from reaching Havenhold collectively and Aslaug felt her chest constrict. Their shades were bluish and so it officially marked the first day of Winter’s Awakening.

She had no gods to woo, but her Hold was new and a new Hold was always in danger of corrupt gods tainting it or the people within the Hold poisoning from within. To ignore such a celebration so critical to the stumbling legs of her Hold was unthinkable.

She didn’t have to look far. Solas was sitting near a fire next to Varric who was telling one of his stories about Hawke the Champion.

“…so Hawke finishes off this dragon – one rogue, two blades, one really big dragon – and of course she shows off; doing this twist in the air and slicing off the dragon’s head.” He started to laugh. “And only then did we realize that after that last breath of fire, the dragon had managed to burn off most of her pants. She’d been fighting for a good five minutes pants-less. And Merrill, Merrill, she says, she says ‘Oh Hawke that was very impressive. I don’t know if you’ve noticed though, you’ve got freckles on your backside. It’s rather cute of you.’ And Hawke. Ah, Hawke she just puts her hands on her hips and says without cracking a smile, ‘I’m always impressive, Merrill.’”

Iron Bull laughed lowly in his throat. “I heard a lot about Hawke," he drawled.

Varric gave a chuckle. “Spy reports, Tiny?”

Solas allowed a smile to slip throughout the story but it slid from his face when he noticed Aslaug across the fire; barefaced and hair undone in her leathers.

Iron Bull glanced at her carefully. “Alright Boss?”

She sighed through her nose and nodded once. “Today is the beginning of Winter’s Awakening. The birds’ve been leaving the Frostbacks and there’s a chill in the air; today, the Lady’s daughters are above us and show the colors of the Avvar.” She pointed up at the darkening sky. She steeled herself – she was Avvar and they were not dead, not here – and crouched near their paltry fire. “Every Hold celebrates the coming of winter. It is the time when the Avvar feel most…” She waved a hand as if to summon the words in common. “It is when we feel the most. Our magic, the earth and sky, each other, our gods. To not do the celebration can bring a darkness upon the Hold.”

Varric leaned forward. “A darkness?”

“Disease. Death. Famine,” she listed quickly before turning to Solas. He met her gaze with a blank face carved from stone – he was the light of the stars when she felt a distinct ache for him to be molten again so she could know his thoughts. “I need help. Upon Winter’s Awakening, we sing and chant for the wellness of the Hold and the world around us.”

Iron Bull was already nodding slowly, eye narrowed in understanding. “Alright Boss. What do you need?”

“None of you know my language, so you can’t sing or chant proper so I’ll ask you to help me hunt an offering. Usually the augur goes into a trance after but being that Solas doesn’t speak my language either, I’ll do it.” She met their stares one at a time. Neither Varric or Iron Bull looked excited at this new prospect, but rather grimly determined. Solas on the other hand looked intrigued.

“And what would you have me do?” He cocked his head slightly.

“I’ll ask you to draw the symbols of my people around me while I’m in my trance. It’ll have to be done slowly – with a good bone of whatever animal we bring down. You won’t need to sing, but I’ll ask you to hum while I sing.”

“Look, I’d love to help but all of this about gods and offerings…” Varric rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s uncomfortable for me, alright? I’m not religious the best of times but – well shit. I believe in Andraste and the Maker. It’s _awkward_.”

Iron cleared his throat. “Sounds like a lot of magic and demons, Boss. Two things I happen to really, _really_ hate.”

Solas pursed his lips at their companions but said nothing. Aslaug left her crouch to sink to her knees, bringing her body parallel to the ground before them, arms outstretched and forehead in the dirt. “I beg you,” she murmured, tasting the dirt she hovered over. There was a heavy silence. She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed her pride. “I beg you; do not make me do this for our Hold alone.”

“Oh. Well shit.” Varric heaved a great sigh. “Don’t do that, please don’t do that. It’s weird. I’ll help you out.”

She felt a heavy hand pull her up and dust her off. “Okay. We’ve got you Boss.”

Solas unfolded himself gracefully and turned his gaze to the moons, then back to her and offered her his hand. His eyes began to shine in the darkening twilight. When she gripped his hand, she squeezed it thankfully – he didn’t return it, did not linger as he had before and a piece of her mourned that loss; the loss that hadn’t truly been hers and was never his…

Their hunt began immediately after she passed him a leather-bound journal of sorts filled with glyphs, some with short words or phrases, with incorrect syntax although the general idea was there. He pocketed after a brief browse through its contents; he could satisfy his curiosity later.

Varric had suggested a large male ram but Aslaug shook her head and pressed further. She turned down various other creatures; stag, druffalo, but had stopped at the tracks in the mud.

A great elk.

Solas watched her range up the minor cliff faces in the Hinterlands with ease, muscles rolling beneath her skin and her hair still wild around her.

Their quarry wasn’t far off; fetlock-deep in a pond and gorging himself on the reeds and low hanging flowers from trees covered in vines.

She touched Varric’s shoulder briefly and he took aim – fired through the elk’s heart and throat and it dropped dead. The pond turned murky pink from its blood and Aslaug and Iron Bull hurried to pull its body from the water. She ran her hand over its wounds, mouthing words in her mother tongue before tugging the arrows out and offering them back to Varric.

Solas leaned on his staff and cast a look at the night sky overhead, the reverent way Aslaug bent to whisper in the elk’s still ear, and the disquieted expressions of their companions. She split the elk and began to skin it. With her direction, Iron Bull removed its antlers easily as well as its hooves, setting those aside.

Varric chose to stand guard, going a little pale at watching the animal being butchered.

Aslaug was quick with her hands, but a beast of that size still took some time. When it was finished, the moons were nearly directly overhead. The meat was placed in a sizeable pile to the side, wrapped in its own hide in neat packages, tied off with its own sinews. The bones she froze and shaved off any remaining slivers of flesh and cleaned them before passing them to Solas.

“Scorch them with fire.” She’d nodded at the growing pile of bones being placed at his feet. “Until there’s nothing but dust left.”

He wrinkled his nose, but kept silent – he had never heard of such a ritual. Celebration, she called it. He wondered if that was a misunderstood bit of phrasing between Avvar and common.

The antlers were set aside and Aslaug had gone off to find Varric. Iron Bull was contemplating the hot fire Solas was using to bake the bone pile. “She seem a little off to you, Solas?” The qunari asked.

“She had a trying experience,” he replied evenly. Enough to make her reek of guilt and grief.

Varric came back slightly unamused with paint on his face. White and blue and yellow formed whorls of color on his forehead, nose, and cheeks.

Color stained the tips of Aslaug’s fingers and she approached Iron Bull with sure footsteps, motioning him lower and he offered his face with a grumble. White slashes across his face, a yellow arch extended from the corner of his good eye and a black hand print that looked oddly small over his mouth.

She hesitated a moment, Solas saw and wondered at it, before she turned to him with a kind of resolve.

The heat from his conjured fire seemed to press closer when she stopped half an arm length from him. She was waiting for his permission, fingertips dripping white. “Ah. Yes,” he agreed, for lack of anything to say. There was an intimacy implied in this – but that hadn’t existed when she had painted Varric or Iron Bull. This was different and it made his jaw clench to know why. Her touch was gentler than he expected. He felt two fingers draw from his forehead where an imagined hairline would’ve been down the line of his nose. The press of her fingers over his lips was startlingly real – he nearly flinched back – but she continued to the point of his chin. With her thumb, she swiped over the rise of his cheekbones once. She dotted beneath each streak and met his eyes as she applied the last dot.

Dark eyes, dark, wild hair and barefaced. She said the Avvar were winter trapped within human bodies; filled with snow and ice but she misunderstood how warm she was. How unashamed she was to be so – the last embers of a hearth fire. Her inability to hide affection or the heart he had once expected to made of ice and stone when it, when she, was anything but. She was not a wildfire, not a wall of fire of so much rage and power. She was the comfortable fire within a home. It was, he reasoned, a far more dangerous trap for him.

Boldly, or perhaps not so boldly for her, both of her thumbs were dipped in her white paint and she ran them down from where his ears met his jawline to his neck.

Abruptly she pulled back and sat next to the remains of the elk’s bones when his fire snuffed itself out; a pile of ash and bone dust that carried with it the heady scent of burnt blood. She uncoiled lengths of leather strips from her arms and dropped them to her side. She looked at him. “I need someone to braid my hair and paint my face. You can’t do that alone on Winter’s Awakening.”

Varric and Iron Bull, Solas noted wryly, had been watching the exchange with varying degrees of raised eyebrows and mischief but had given them a wide berth.

“I’m afraid I don’t know many braids,” he murmured, leaving his staff on the ground and settling behind her.

“It doesn’t have to be fancy. Whatever braid you know,” her voice was soft and rather uncharacteristically subdued.

As a test, Solas gave her hair the slightest touch with his palm and heard her sigh through her nose, leaning back just slightly. He closed his eyes. He could feel the paint drying on his face – once the thought of his face being marked as such would have drawn out his annoyance, his discomfort. But this wasn’t from his people. This was hers and she was the one to draw on him, pads of her fingers coasting along the points of his features.

Now she expected him to braid her hair and paint her face – no one else in their group had enough hair so that hadn’t needed. He suspected this was all rather formal; her being the only receptacle of knowledge on the intricacies of her people.

His fingers sank into her hair. It was a heavy, thick mass that coiled as though alive. There was no comb, so using all of her hair for a braid would’ve been impossible. He settled for the front locks of hair, braiding them separately and bringing them back, tying off each one before beginning another braid at the crown of her head and folding the other two braids in, wrapping them like rope around each other.

He looked at the small open pouches at her side; blue and white, black and yellow – limited colors, but she wore them well.

Her eyes met his and it was an effort to breathe for a moment. “I do not know the meanings of the designs your people use for their rituals,” he said quietly.

Her blink was slow, as if waking from a long dream. “Something you put meaning to. Something of your people, or a creation of yours. It will be something of you; that’s enough for me.”

He hissed an inhale. She met him fearlessly. Without hesitation, not a moment of doubt – not confidence that stemmed from arrogance or obliviousness, but a sureness in oneself, if nothing else. This would – this would not end well if it began.

She waited.

Then shame filled him. An emotion he was well versed in, and he felt it reflect on his face, saw her recognize it. She swallowed hard, brow furrowing as though taking a blow she hadn’t expected, and was winded from it. He opened his mouth to apologize, but stopped himself. Her pride would be crushed if he did so. He could spare her from little, but it wasn’t necessary to be cruel.

She closed her eyes and when it was safe to do so, Solas dipped his fingers in her blue and began to paint the lower half of her face and forehead, leaving the circles of her eyes alone. Whirls of white, more blue everywhere but her eyes.

“Done.” The word was more of a breath and he waited for her eyes to open. A selfishness of his own creation to suffer at the hands of. Her eyes opened, dark and wide, and the colors he had painted on her face highlighted them. The ocean on her face with only her eyes staring out was all he could convey to her. Words he couldn’t even say to himself came to him when she trusted him enough to close her eyes and let him so close without even a glance of suspicion.

A far-off horizon he could drown trying to follow, dark reaches that would crush the life from his people if he allowed it, a cold place that beheld warmth untold and would carry him unceasingly loyal as was its nature.

She stood suddenly and walked to the middle ground. He allowed her without following her with his eyes.

They did as directed, and scattered the bone-ash around them in a wide circle. Varric eyed them questioningly. Iron Bull had enough tact to ignore what they had all witness. But they backed away to stand watch on the two from a distance. Solas held a small journal with the glyphs of her people. They were obvious enough that he didn’t need an explanation of what they were.

She started to sing.

The sincerity of her people’s language bled through in every aspect of her; heartfelt and genuine and incapable of artifice. To be that way so openly would have meant death elsewhere. She would have a difficult time of remaining so the longer she stayed away from her people, regardless of what the augur of Lurkerhold claimed.

Solas was a gifted, talented liar, however despicable that was. For the time that remained, however long this venture of theirs lasted, he could at least do that so she wouldn’t need to. She deserved better, but he couldn’t give it to her.

He etched out symbols with a sharp shard of bone he’d chosen and drew them within their circle, around Aslaug as she went through varying stages of her ballad. There was an instinctive knowledge the symbols attached to her language effortlessly, that when called, the glyphs made themselves known during it. He needn’t know her language to feel when the symbol had been called in some way or other.

It was easier to think of this academically and removed from Aslaug and her dark eyes. He felt, saw, knew what she had offered, what she wanted in return but he was a ruin made so by ages of fury and a savage, unrelenting grief upon his awakening. He could not give to her what he had denied his people, what he would soon deny to her world.

Her voice grew hoarse and the moons were slowly leaving them.

He felt spirits press closer, curious but so far unafraid. They simply watched, drawn by what he felt in the air around her like an electric charge from storm magic.

Her voice cut short and she fell leisurely on her back, legs still beneath her. He stopped humming and drawing, watched her as she breathed, eyes wide but sightless. The air around her was cold enough for him to see his breath.

The paint on her face was startling from afar. Exotic and alien when surrounded by her dark hair braided in a distinctly elvish style. She drew a large breath in a stutter suddenly, tearing eyes finding his.

“I watched you die in the other place,” she croaked.

Solas felt his body still, tensed in the darkness. “Do not –” He didn’t want to know how he had failed then, in that other time without her or the mark, did not want to know what fate may still yet await.

“You fought to the last, then burned yourself in your god-fire, Solas. I watched you.” One hand blindly groped until she caught his hand with a tight grip. “You told me you were sorry and then you died in your own god-fire.”

Words were difficult – died by his own hand? What did the future – no. To know was to tempt a self-fulfilling prophecy, he could not know, could not be tempted to know, but yet –

“Why did I apologize?” He leaned closer to hear her thin voice, so brittle after singing by herself with smoke still in the air.

She saw him, but he wondered which one she was seeing at present. She lifted herself to her knees and turned around, wrapping a hand on the back of his neck and pulling him close. Not fast enough that he hadn’t had time to avoid it - she was a comfort beyond of what he’d had. He would take what little he could accept.

She rested her forehead on his, their paint dry enough that it didn’t stick and strong enough that it didn’t crumble. “‘I was wrong. Forgive me.’ You said this to me and left to fight, and then you died.”

Dark, warm stones watched him from the surface of a great ocean. It was entirely possible that – were things different, or if they were different people living different lives, or simply in another place far from this – he would remain afloat in the vast ocean to live simply. But this was not a dream, dreams were for people who deserved them, and she didn’t deserve to have him foisted upon her only to end in tragedy. 

The words of his future self, in that distant place where chaos reigned and the world ended, were they for what had happened during that year she’d gone missing? Or from the beginning, or about what he had planned –

No. It would do no one any good to know the future. He uncurled her fingers from the back of his neck and backed away purposefully. He dropped his eyes to the ground.

He felt her watching him keenly. “I knew you, in that other place. I knew you better then, I think.” He contained the flinch at her words and the grimace of the tone of her voice, dejected and resigned. She stood shakily. “The celebration for Winter’s Awakening is done.”

“Not much of a celebration, I have to say!” Varric called off from a distance. Both the dwarf and the qunari had kept their backs to them, perhaps trying to give them some form of privacy.

Aslaug’s laugh was weak; a limping sound that had no place coming from her. “Now we drink, skald, is that more to your liking?”

“Hah! I’m in. I snuck some Orlesian honey-wine to come with…” Iron Bull bent to pick up most of the packets of meat.

“Ugh. Keep your sweet wines to yourself.” Aslaug moved away without another moment as if she couldn’t wait for distance between them. She and the qunari moved back in the direction of the camps. Varric remained behind.

Solas stood and gripped his staff anew. “Master Tethras,” he acknowledged.

Varric wisely didn’t comment on what he may have heard or seen, but he was marked in condolence. “Come on Chuckles. You look pale. Some wine might do you some good.”

Solas looked at the journal she had left with him, the open pouches of paint she’d left, and he collected them quietly. “No thank you, Master Tethras. I believe sleep is in order."

Even when they were back at camp and he was tucked in his bedroll from the companionable fires and could hear Varric and Iron Bull sharing stories, he still felt the press of her fingers on his mouth, his cheeks, and the cool touch of her forehead to his, felt the ghost of her hair swallowing his fingers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex Entries
> 
> Avvar seasonal celebrations & Frid and Run (non-canon)
> 
> Frid and Run (‘beautiful’ and ‘secret’ respectively) refer to the two moons of Thedas. These are the names the Avvar alone, along with varying tribes that stem from the Alamarri, call the two moons by.  
> The Avvar celebrate seasons in varying ways; Spring for new growth, Summer for plentiful food, Autumn for harvest while Winter is the only season celebrated twice; once in the beginning in order to ‘open’ a Hold and its members to the natural and spiritual worlds, and once in the end to honor their place in winter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Winter’s Awakening & the Avvar (non-canon)
> 
> Due to the Avvar being such wintry folk, they attach a lot of spiritual purpose and meaning to the beginning, the duration, and end of winter. Whereas most people tend to have children typically in the summer or spring, the Avvar often try to have children during the winter so as to usher them into the world when there will be more significance spiritually; there’s also some expectation that children born during winter will be hardier, more likely to be favored by the gods in the Frostbacks and may serve as a test to ensure that the child won’t be a weakling. It is considered an ill omen if a child born during winter dies during it within their first several years due to disease or the cold. Winter’s Awakening is the approximate equivalent of what the rest of Ferelden refers to as Wintermarch. Winter’s Awakening is usually spent with the Hold, with Holdmates, chanting and gathering offerings for the Hold’s gods. It is rumored that a Hold without children will sing or chant for days to be blessed with them.


	21. afroð twa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re still at the point where Aslaug doesn’t really see herself as the “leader” (albeit she does consider herself as some kind of thane, but not one in truth); after all, the Herald is still technically lower in hierarchy than the advisors including Cassandra until Skyhold. We’re also going to be seeing some cultural habits rise that help create conflict once we reach Skyhold, and there will be some thoughts and beliefs from Aslaug’s point of view which will be slightly upsetting or some will find disagreeable. The point I’m making with this is that Aslaug at this point in the story is very much herself, but mostly tries to adapt to the culture of Ferelden, Orlais at the expense of ignoring her own (different from denying). That will be changing (somewhat) and will be showing the good and the bad of the Avvar (as I’ve developed their culture within this fic, certainly NOT canon). Figured that since this sort of thing has come up several times, I’d post here and hope some people read this beforehand as a warning or explanation of future events, otherwise I’d be responding to similar questions repeatedly. 
> 
> This is the introductory chapter of some of the darker sides to the Avvar, the plot moving along and character interactions. So just as an FYI, some of the cultural customs for the Avvar will be darker – we delved into Aslaug trying to adapt to other cultures, now we’ll be seeing her culture up close and unfiltered. Posting this now as a warning, I suppose, for this and future chapters.
> 
> Offer getter - sacrificial goats
> 
> As always, thanks to whoever commented, left a kudo or bookmarked.

The weather favored them; game was still plentiful in the Hinterlands which surprised Aslaug. She was used to a leaner season; days and days of tracking the same beast before trekking with it slung over tired shoulders back to the Hold.

There was an overabundance of ram in the Hinterlands, and the nug population wasn’t slim either. Aslaug filled her day with Dorian, or speaking to the lowland mages, or tagging along with the scouts to hunt. She needed the distraction – foolish as it was. She had offered herself and all that she may ever be to Solas; had burned with it because he had made it so, slowly over time until his reflection from the future had worsened it like a fever. She felt her skin stretched beneath it.

She was not blind, not stupid. She’d seen him look, seen it in their companionable moments alone when they weren’t the god-marked Avvar woman and her advisor; they shed their skins and were Solas and Aslaug. She couldn’t say exactly what it was, but one was drawn to the other. Kinship for the sake of being outlandish to the lowlanders, maybe. Friendship out of mutual respect and some shared interests.

All of that. And more. She felt it writhe like a snake coiled around the ever flapping bird she called a heart, felt it pound in her ears now like a drum for war. Were she Chasind, she might have claimed he had bewitched her as sure as any of their witches of the Wilds.

Those moments she had turned her back to him, offered her hair, she realized that he likely had no idea of the significance of it all. He didn’t know what she was offering, what she was saying to him. She could have gone the typical route she was used to; blunt terms that said what one meant. ‘Share my bedroll.’ ‘You’re handsome, let’s go to bed.’ ‘Piss in the wind, I want nothing from you.’

Avvar customs were different from the lowlanders', and she’d imagined Solas wouldn’t have appreciated a more direct, loud approach.

But body language was something everyone understood. She’d watched the realization crawl across his face, saw the openness he often kept locked away as a secret, watched it crumble and slip through her fingers like sand.

He had wanted it, seen what she offered, but had turned it aside – why? When she had pulled him close, felt him tense then relax against her, into the tide of her comfort, she had a brief moment of relief, of something a little like triumph. But then he’d pulled her hand away, left the press of her skin and the slowly closing circle of her arms. He hadn't in the other place, until the moment of his final fight came. Were the two so different? 

The trance of Winter’s Awakening brought on by the death of a strong, healthy animal, bones left to nothingness, a prayer to the nature gods that listened, had tugged at the memory of his other-self. Like him and not like him. The way he’d lost what restraint she saw of him now, the way he’d been unafraid to stay beside her, breathe her in as if resurfacing from the bottom of a great lake.

Had she been wrong? Their moments, their affections shared so easily, were they markings of friendship to him? Couldn’t be – lowlanders were so shy of their bodies and other bodies and the enjoyment of it. Or did he fear she meant to anchor him to her? Keep him the way so many human lowlanders kept their partners for years, and years; a declaration made so by their silent god. She should have spoken up. Avvar didn’t keep their partners, they stayed if they wished but it wasn’t enforced, wasn’t expected that they remain so forever. He was a wanderer by heart. Maybe she had made him wary at the thought of being so bound to another. Or maybe she being who and what she was made him skittish. Avvar pairings were impulsive but heartfelt and rarely lasted more than a decade – it was possible her impulsive decision to pursue him so boldly had chased him off.

She hadn’t really known what either Solas had wanted; this one or the one in the future but at least one was easier to _know_. The other Solas had more teeth to him; this one was all shadow and slipping masks. She wanted to rip away all the masks he hid behind, to dig until she found the one with teeth because while she didn’t know enough about him to truly see all of him, she knew that the other one was a truth hidden from her.

He had known her, in that other place. She could understand his actions more, now. He’d wanted her, lost her, and regained her before his end.

In whatever capacity he wanted her, she wanted as much or more.

He’d wanted her back, but held himself away. And now _he_ was the one who avoided _her_.

She watched him accompany the other mages in the back and sucked at the inside of her lower lip. He had his reasons, fine. But he couldn’t hide and deny forever; if he didn’t truly want her and this was an unwanted thing she continued to throw at him, she would stop and let her bruised pride settle, let whatever she felt for him lay in the dirt like the dead thing it would be.

If he did want her as much as she thought, he would at least face her and tell her why he played such a push-pull game with her. Relationships were not the same amongst her people and the lowlanders but she would not be led around by a lead, no matter how kind the hand that held the other end was. And - whichever Solas responded, she didn't care because it was him, it was all him, but she didn't want to be left wondering and panting after him stupidly. Her pride wouldn't be able to handle the humiliation of unwanted, one-sided affection. 

The end of the journey to Havenhold was easy. Mages filled the yards and she watched over yonder where the advisors watched them. Cullen didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t seem angry over the issue. Aslaug saw no new tower-keeper banners and assumed they had come back before Cassandra.

Aslaug pulled her forder beside Fiona suddenly and the older woman jolted. “Herald…” She began.

Ignoring whatever else she had to say, Aslaug pointed to Josephine, still in her fine clothes and strange ruffles. “See that woman? You’re to report to her, and the woman with the hood will see you as well. Josephine and Leliana.”

“But not your Commander Cullen?” Fiona asked dryly.

“He isn’t the one you need to worry about.” She raised her brows and kicked the forder into a canter, directing it to the bare stables. Some Avvar milled around, arms crossed and decorated in paints and mostly forgoing their furs. Some of the younger priestesses from the Chantry tittered and seemed unable to keep their eyes from the young Avvar men going around bare-chested and muscled.

Augur Hrathgur stood beside the stables, lurker hide cloak wrapped around him and medicinal pouches hanging from the belt at his hips. She slid off her mount and stuck her arm out to grab his. His grip wasn’t so tight or strong as it had been when she’d been younger. Age was leaving its mark on him.

“You’ve brought an army with you,” he congratulated. His eyes were focused on Dorian and Felix, she saw. “And Tevinter washes ashore with you. I don’t think the lowlanders take well to sacrifices, Gunhilddotten.”

She huffed a laugh. “These aren’t sacrifices. I’ve no gods to sacrifice to and Havenhold is too young for four days of Winter’s Awakening.” She gestured to Felix. “A good man. Went against his father to help us. He’s sick, augur. Tainted with the Blight. I told him you might be able to help.”

Hrathgur clucked his tongue. “He’s pale as the dead, girl.”

“I said _might_.”

He let out a long exhale before he nodded. “Bring him here. Let’s see. If the man was worthy enough to be saved and he traveled all this way for a ‘might’ we won’t make him wait.”

Aslaug whistled and caught Felix’s attention, waving him over. He and Dorian changed course, still on their mounts and they slowed hesitantly upon stepping into what the collective Avvar had claimed as their camp. “ _Offer getter_!” One of the men yelled out, several others joining in the jeering, while more laughed at the paling of Dorian’s pallor. Few of the spectators didn’t look as though they were joking when they ran their hands over their battle knives or axes.

“Quiet you clods,” Aslaug barked. “They’re guests.” She shooed them with her hands, wicked new spear at her side. One of the men eyed her as if contemplating challenging her and she straightened, let ice touch the tip of her spear. “Off with you before I take something of yours.” She warned, voice nearly a growl.

He spat at her feet – a whelp from Ramhornshold. She ran her tongue over her teeth and introduced augur Hrathgur to Felix. “This is the augur from my Birthhold. He’s dealt with the sickness before. I can’t promise anything and neither can he.”

Felix smiled slightly. “Thank you, augur.” He didn’t attempt to repeat Hrathgur’s name – likely couldn’t say it right and was afraid stumbling over it may insult the other man.

“Off the horse with you. In the yurt – you his man?” He addressed Dorian abruptly.

The Tevinter mage blinked. “No. Good friends, but no not that.”

Hrathgur grunted. “Whatever you call it. You want to sit in, or wait?”

Dorian’s lip twitched beneath his mustache and Aslaug already felt her eyes rolling; he was going to play the ass again. “I would but I’m terribly afraid you’re going to stew me. Felix, however, is already on his way out so a bit of bump up his schedule shouldn’t be so horrible.” Felix gave a long suffering sigh and Hrathgur barked out a laugh.

“Stew you? I actually know what Tevinters eat. I’d sooner eat the ass end of a wyvern.”

Dorian made a falsely miffed sound while taking Felix’s horse’s reins from him. “I’ll see you both later, Dorian, my lady.” Felix gave a slight bow before following Hrathgur into the yurt.

Dorian’s mildly playful expression faded. “There probably won’t be anything he can do. Not a slight on his abilities, you understand, but Felix has been sick a very long time. He’s…well. He’s ready. But if there’s anything he can do to make sleeping easier or for the pain…I would appreciate it,” he confessed quietly.

Aslaug felt a soft nose touch her shoulder from behind; she patted her beast’s neck before she answered Dorian. “Even if he dies, something can be done to make the dying easier,” she promised. Dorian’s inhale stuttered a little. He likely wouldn’t appreciate the platitudes she heard lowlanders tell each other softly, as if words could reach bone-deep grief. “Come. You need to meet the advisors. Get some wine in you.”

“My dear lady Herald, are you trying to seduce me?” Dorian flattered, hand to his chest.

“If I was trying to seduce you, you wouldn’t need to ask.”

Not far, her Holdmates brought their mounts to the stables. Solas tilted his head to the left, slightly sideways but left without regarding her completely.

He was easier to understand when he had teeth.

 

…

 

The introduction with the advisors went as well as Aslaug expected. Josephine and Leliana looked pleasantly surprised by Dorian’s arrival and his nearly unexpected alliance. Cullen looked less thrilled, but pleased they had allies at last on the doorstep of the Inquisition. Now they waited for the other team to return.

Cassandra and the others were still off with the templars, dealing with whatever situation had arisen there. In the future, the templars had joined with the Elder One as the mages had. If they didn’t return soon, Aslaug would go and bring them back – she’d done so for the nameless soldiers left in the Mire who had been reluctantly grateful of their barbarian savior, she would not do less for her Holdmates.

There were only nature gods to pray to for their safe return; fair weather and gentle terrain – Aslaug carried her offerings into the wilderness safe from the eyes of the lowlanders and piled stones atop each other, streaking the top with white and offering a live rabbit that she bled over the stones, laying its body at the bottom. She prayed for a time. The consonants of her people spilled from her. Wind and earth, rain and storm, pressing upon the gods of nature; truly the only gods that were everywhere no matter what, to keep her journeying Holdmates safe from hunger and disease and from the nature gods themselves. A string of highland berries wrapped in ivy joined the rabbit.

She heard the distant cacophony of drums beating into the night, horns heralding a celebration and the dark tones of her people. The other Holds staying at Havenhold were not so new, had gods and rituals of their own and were not so alone in their celebration.

From the line of trees, Aslaug saw them beating their instruments, playing pipes and circles of drums and gourds. Hrathgur stood with the people of Falconhold – as their sibling Hold, he was welcomed to join in their celebrations.

Multiple bonfires rose high to lick at the sky.

She smelled burnt blood in the air, felt the crackle of the magic of her people so unlike the Circle mages; raw and primal and honed sharply in a way that allowed for little weakness. Upon several of the crooked trees in the opposite side of the forest, she saw animals hanging from rope – offerings to their gods and the nature gods and the spirit of winter. Rams, birds, and one druffalo was cut in half and suspended in two to fit.

The Inquisition kept its distance; Aslaug noticed. There were wide eyed guards in front of the gates to Havenhold. Several members of the free mages, now her people, peeked around the stables to watch the goings-on.

No one but the guards at the gate and the watchers on the walls remained where the Avvar stomped on the grounds. The Iron Bull and the Chargers weren’t missing, but hidden in the shadows by the stables where some of the animals were unsettled by the pulse in the air and the strangeness of the people before them.

They stayed to keep an eye on them, Aslaug thought with a sting.

Felix stood by Hrathgur’s yurt covered in bone dust, observing the celebrations before him with interest. She discovered he smelled of henbane when she got closer. Felix looked over at her with a half-smile before he returned to watching the Avvar drink and eat, sing and chant, play instruments and dance with heavy feet around their fires. “The augur says my sickness is very advanced.”

She nodded, watched the fires flicker. A headdress of a fully skinned ram shuddered on the man playing the spirit of Ramhornshold while another from the same Hold blew on its signal horn to replicate the call of the rams in the deep of the Frostbacks; more aggressive and dangerous than their mild lowland cousins. “Did he say when you’ll die?”

An older woman with a feathered cape, feet and hands painted white and a black beak drawn on her face with charcoal and burnt wood, danced to the sound of pipes that replicated the cry of a falcon. Other chosen men and women danced in the guise to honor their Hold spirit, varying instruments separate but for the constant, synchronized drums, but all blending together to create the atmosphere Aslaug was used to for Winter’s Awakening; not the watered down rituals she had performed with her Holdmates.

“He…performed some sort of ritual. Blood magic was used I believe, but not the same as I’ve known from Tevinter. I’m actually not entirely sure what to call it.” He sounded wary of it, but mostly curious.

“He tell you to kill an animal?”

“Yes. Told me I had to bring down a shadowcat on my own.” Felix chuckled and Aslaug felt herself charmed by its sound. “It wasn’t easy, but I managed it.” He sobered. “I had to skin it and eat its liver.”

She turned to him, at the man whose father would have let the world die, and wondered at his mettle. “Did you?”

He quieted, eyes to the ground then to the fires. “Yes.”

His color was better, he sounded as if he didn’t need to wheeze to breathe – and he’d brought a beast down on his own while so sickly. “Your god may not favor anyone, but there are gods that would, maybe already do, favor you. You should find them,” she advised.

His response was appropriately serious even as he gave her a soft smile. “I think I should.”

She saw the drying fur of the shadowcat hanging from a tree, pierced through with threading needles to stretch it and the salt that still crusted it from its bath was slowly frosting. “How much of it have you eaten?” The bone dust had come from the same animal, she realized, sprinkled and rubbed into his skin with oil and the fat or brains of the shadowcat.

“Just the liver. He said I didn’t have to eat all of it.” He shifted uncomfortably. “It isn’t the most appetizing animal. I buried the rest. I feel like I wasted it.”

“You didn’t. Something, somewhere, is always hungry and it’ll find its way to it.”

“I don’t know why I had to kill it and eat its liver, exactly.” He sounded guilty about it; not liking to waste life.

“It does not know disease,” she said softly, watching the breeze forcing the hide to shiver. “And he needs your body to learn from it.” She paused. “I’m surprised you’re trying his ways at all.”

“I have always accepted my death. There weren’t any rituals I was aware of, or that my father was aware of, that could have cured the Blight. Not even blood magic; it would have turned me into a mindless…creature. There were ancient Tevinter writings I remember reading…the Chasind warriors bled their hounds and cured them using flowers and the ashes of their dead, Dalish herbs and powerful medicinal healing counteracted the Blight by burning it away through days of fever…” His eyes slid to her. “Dark, heretical rituals of the Avvar stopping it in its tracks and curing the infected if they proved themselves.”

“The gods rarely gift things freely. You’ll live. You’ll have to fight it until the end, but you’ll live.” She doubted he didn’t have any gods following or favoring him.

“The phenomenon of hope is something I haven’t been acquainted with for some time.” He admitted with a self-deprecating laugh. “I accepted my inevitable death…I don’t know if I’ll so easily accept a death I have a chance of dodging.”

They remained that way for a time in the lull of silence and the living heart of the Avvar at the point of their culture.

Great-Stag Hold brought out a slab of stone and atop of the stone rose the steam of freshly cooked deer. The body of a fully cooked doe, fatty and in her prime, was seasoned heavily in wild garlic and onions, salt and chervil. A second slab of stone followed it but it carried a large buck seasoned similarly. The slabs were placed to the sides and a roar of approval roared from the attending Avvar, Aslaug joining their reveling finally and she dug an elbow into Felix’s arm to follow. A few of the closer Avvar laughed when he did, but it was good natured and approving.

Ramhornshold offered a ram that must have been dried in salt – though where they found a vessel large enough to salt-age its body for days she wasn’t sure. Whole roasted onions and potatoes, and thick-skinned parsnips surrounded the ram. Falconhold brought out flat bread with cloves of garlic, provided proper ale, and salted, pickled eggs and raw leafy greens oiled in animal fat. Harthold offered fresh fruit and druffalo milk, scores of nuts and more vegetables. Snake-fish Hold had defied the Inquisition’s wishes and cut a wide circle in the frozen lake and plates of fish and eel gleamed in the firelight supplemented with the water greens that grew deep below.

Lurkerhold didn’t offer anything, but augur Hrathgur – as the only augur sent from any Hold – stood on the tallest rock before the people, raising his arms over the excited clamor and the beating drums.

“Tonight, we welcome in the second day of Winter’s Awakening. Yesterday was a day of prayer and chant for our Holds to usher in our new year with a long winter!” The crowd, already made wild by the festivities, roared louder. The Inquisition guards jolted at the noise. “Today, we feast and offer the bones to the nature gods above, below, and around us. Sing, eat, drink – it is the night gifted to us by the gods. And let us not forget.” His voice lowered and the instruments stopped, drums beating softly. “The breath of the harshest winter makes the strongest Avvar. A time for dying, death, and the culling of the weak. Honor Hakkon Wintersbreath for he has made all of you who still stand, strong!”  

The yells of the Avvar, an Inquisition guard would tell his mates later after his shift ended, were like the howls of animals from beyond the unseen edge of a forest. And, he would add in secrecy over a mug of hot beer, the Herald chanted loudly in her unnatural language to an obscure pagan god.

The drums were nearly deafening and the fires climbed higher.

 

…

 

Filled with ale and meat and the offerings the other Holds had made, Aslaug began a slow climb up the hill once the celebration ended. The Avvar carried the bones and what little food was left over to the woods. Honor the gods in nature with the bones of the dead to thank them for always providing; the food would be thrown in the far distance for scavengers.

The guards looked wary that she was leaving, but Iron Bull and the Chargers had already deemed that nothing the Avvar were doing was dangerous. She doubted Iron Bull had missed the offerings of the animals tied in the trees, and knew that this would somehow come around to belittle her people’s traditions.

The Avvar had stopped their activities and were mostly drinking quietly or retiring. The sun would be peeking over the mountaintops soon.

Felix had gone off to find Dorian after he’d been hassled twice to eat more, kinder strangers seeing a guest of Lurkerhold  - an old scarred woman from Falconhold had given him a full plate of meat and fish and onion and greens twice before she’d allowed him to beg off.

Aslaug had had enough ale to make the stiffness in her shoulders relax, but not enough to make her unwieldy.

Solas stood before his cabin.

Her feet had led her here when her own cabin – isolated with a space too large for one person to sleep alone – was at the other side.

For the first time since meeting him, she was unsure of what to say. A part of her needed to demand why he shied from her, why she felt as though he was hiding from her when his other-self had been too weary to lie. Another thought that followed up her frustration with the situation Solas seemed content to bury them in was something she never would have had if she hadn’t ventured to the lowlands. Be gentle, use caution, approach slowly – this is not the way things are done here. Why didn't he let her hold him as his other-self had? What had changed - or what didn't change? 

What had she done to make him shy from her like that? 

Solas straightened but he averted his eyes – she wanted to grab him by the shoulders and get close enough to him until he had nowhere to look but at her and simultaneously she wanted to leave immediately and find some more ale. If he was Avvar, this wouldn’t have happened. He would have taken her to bed, or maybe courted her, or maybe stolen her or let her steal him or told her to fuck off. If he was Avvar, he’d have understood the meanings of her people, would have understood what it meant to braid her hair on the first day of Winter’s Awakening. He would have understood what she had painted on him. He wouldn’t have made her feel like a foolish girl that didn’t know any better.

If he had been Avvar, he wouldn’t speak of ancient ruins or battlefields. He wouldn’t have made friends so easily with the gods, wouldn’t have roamed their lands freely. He wouldn’t speak elvhen; poetry and rolling lilts that ran off his tongue like honey. He wouldn't want to know everything the world had to offer, to be so driven by the need to know the world. He wouldn’t be Solas of the north. She didn’t know who he’d be. 

Torn by indecision, feet shifting in the dark earth and falling snow, she stared at him while he fixed his gaze on some point she couldn’t see. She opened her mouth to speak, or yell, or gods forbid, plead with him; she hadn’t decided – but the low, mournful utterance of a signal horn interrupted her. She turned, mouth in a thin line. Cassandra and the others were back.

She would have resumed trying to talk to Solas, but a second horn blew – a loud trumpeting bellow that wasn’t anything like what the Inquisition had and it made her gut twist.

That was an Avvar horn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex Entries 
> 
> Henbane (non-canon, ancient civilization use) 
> 
> Henbane has been historically used in a lot of medicines, poisons as well as a hallucinogen in order to bring about a trance so the user could be closer to the lands of dreams and therefore their gods. 
> 
> The Avvar and Blight sickness (canon, non-canon)
> 
> Many of the outlier tribes of Thedas (the Dalish, Chasind, and the Avvar) use magic and ancient medicine to treat the taint. In Tevinter texts, they regard the Chasind as the least effective in treating the Blight as they seem to only use it on their war hounds, while the Dalish seem to be the most effective. They burn the sickness out through days of fever and powerful magic, albeit this treatment doesn’t extend to all of the clans and doesn’t seem to be shared simply due to distance issues as well as hostile human forces. The Avvar methodology of healing is as brutal as the people themselves; they have to go through rigorous rituals that most of common-day Thedas would find abhorrent. It’s a ritual that skirts blood magic but does involve impressing a god enough to grant its blessing upon the sick; if a god isn’t impressed or the sickly person is too weak, they will die. 
> 
> The Avvar and the spirit of the Hold (non-canon)
> 
> Often seen during the second day of celebration for Winter’s Awakening, chosen people of the Hold (who could hold any “position” in the Hold) don costumes that resemble the animal their Hold is named for – and essentially become the spirit of the Hold. To do this honors the Hold itself, the Hold beast and is meant to pray to the gods of nature for prosperity in the lands and weather. 
> 
> The Avvar and feasting on Winter’s Awakening (non-canon, ancient Viking)
> 
> Whereas the first day of Winter’s Awakening is approached with a grim seriousness, the second day is meant to honor the Avvar themselves and their Holds, and so it becomes a celebration in truth. They’re meant to mention Hakkon Wintersbreath at least once (or else they may suffer bad luck from the god of winter and war which isn’t dissimilar to death for the Avvar). The Holds above in the celebration bring out dishes that reflect what they often have or specialize in; Lurkerhold had too few to offer in the name of the feast so Hrathgur offered his services as augur to everyone present instead. Since Aslaug’s position in Havenhold is uncertain and she is the only Avvar there, it was overlooked being that Havenhold was technically the hosting all the other Hold representatives. 
> 
> The Avvar and other notes on Winter’s Awakening (non-canon, canon)
> 
> To the Avvar, winter is a season they were meant to have. It is believed only the strong survive through it and it is said that Hakkon, god of winter and war, culls the weak (in whatever manner they may mean by “weak”) and demands war to give him glory and further strengthen the Avvar. As such, the Avvar’s rituals become darker during this time they consider themselves the strongest. Regular sacrifices of animals are suspended cleverly from trees, glyphs carved in the carcasses and left for the Lady of the Skies, Korth Mountain-Father, Hakkon Wintersbreath and any other god name they carve in the animals. Flowers and herbs are often accompanied with them. And, being that winter is their favorite time to wage war or raid, there are times when human corpses are hung from the trees.


	22. afroð dri

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're still in afroð, I warned you this was a lengthy arc and I had to chop it up. 
> 
> As a general question, would it help any if I started an Avvar meta page on my blog and post codex entries there and elaborate on them if people have questions? Just to sort of streamline this so readers don’t have to always flip back to certain chapters to find a specific entry? Especially since I took my ask down on tumblr.

The horn trumpeted again, a low trilling sound and Aslaug was already at the gates, Solas behind her with the Inquisition soldiers on patrol following their flight curiously. She pushed the gates open and saw nothing. Her breath steamed the air in front of her.

Her brows came together as she edged out, hand on her handaxe and feeling bereft without her glaive in hand, but there was nothing but yurts and the remains of the bonfires. A few of the Avvar on watch, those less drunk and still capable of thought, had perked up at it but saw nothing to raise any alarm about.

“God-marked!” A yell cut through the strange silence following the blare of the Avvar horn. She turned to meet the origin of the yell and saw a young hunter, the other boy from the Mire, standing with his bow out and his eyes wide, a little glassy from drink. She was about to snap at him for sounding such an alarm without cause; just because this wasn’t a normal Hold didn’t give him leave to act like an ass. He was lucky there were others awake and had seen no need to raise the alarm for nothing, seated as they were beside the still warm remains of the bonfires.

But the boy’s frightened face had cast a pale pallor over him; there was sickliness to him as he pointed out over the lake.

A figure in red armor lay prone on the ice. Whoever it was, was on their front so she couldn’t tell what armor that was but she pursed her lips and saw that upon her curiosity and sudden sprint to the boy the Avvar on watch had stirred and lingered behind her with their hands on their weapons although they didn’t approach closer; still half-hidden behind a knoll that covered the figure. Along the top of Havenhold’s walls Inquisition archers looked down curiously.

The war horn didn’t worry her anymore, neither did the figure on the ice, or the stares from the Inquisition forces, or the wary stances of the Avvar, and even the presence of Solas behind her didn’t worry her or distract her. She slid down the incline and, with a grace that came with time and practice, walked on the ice to the figure.

His armor wasn’t red, but he was, and Aslaug drew back with an aborted shout once she recognized it beneath the lights of Frid and Run. She saw now why the boy had trembled. The figure’s face was a horror to behold. Jagged teeth grew from the side of his jaw, and his flesh had looked as if it had bubbled over a roasting pit, slick and shiny, he had no ears or hair and his nose was flat and serpentine in appearance with slitted nostrils. Red lyrium bloomed out of his armor, out of his skin, and she saw that he had inflamed claws instead of gauntlets. His blood was black, black as a ghoul’s, black as darkspawn, black as the Blight. Her skin crawled, hair on the nape of her neck stood up.

Three arrows, of which had all struck his chest, had broken at the shafts upon his fall. She gagged at his putrid scent and slid closer to the body in a crouch. One hand braced on her knee, she used her other hand to turn him over on his back. She leaned over him, taking in his features and stopped cold at the sigil on his breastplate. A sword in flames.

She took in a breath to call out to Solas - she couldn’t let the Avvar see this yet; they might jump to conclusions, might set their sights on the tower-keepers of Havenhold who weren’t truly keepers anymore, and Solas would know what to do, Solas would be calm about this, calmer than anyone else besides maybe Iron Bull but she hadn’t seen the horned giant - but the body bucked suddenly and the movement sent Aslaug back in a crab walk away from it, scrambling for her handaxe.

An eye of the beast opened, but it was small as if the flesh had swollen around it, and she saw only black. It hacked and coughed, spat at her, body seizing and she realized from the way its mouth moved that it was trying to speak.

Then it laughed, mouth wider than a person’s should be and it split nearly to its malformed ears, black blood dripping from it, and Aslaug moved, her only weapon in hand, and delivered a blow, twice, thrice, to its neck until the thing stopped laughing. Its blood coated her hands and arms, tainted her leathers and her stone axe, and for a brief, panicked moment, Aslaug was worried she could taste it, feel the taint of it sliding down her throat.

She turned and heaved, but forced herself to keep her stomach down even as her body tried rejecting it. The smell - the smell of Redcliffe’s worst future, bodies and bones and lyrium and rot, the scent that laid beneath parchment and the lands that stole her, ink and dust and starlight -

Solas was there, hand hovering over her shoulder before he crouched down next to the body instead. The air felt colder for a moment, but she shrugged it off - there would be time for that later, she was Avvar, battle-mage, god-marked, Gunhilddotten, not a young wide-eyed thing that couldn’t think beyond herself. Even though he didn’t offer comfort as effortlessly as he would have before she had ruined it, he regarded her with disquiet.

She stopped heaving although to her shame, her hands trembled.

“This is red lyrium,” Solas said softly and he looked at the arrows sunken in the body, the hacks in his neck, and the creature’s breastplate. “A templar. This...doesn’t bode well for Cassandra and the others.” His fingers hovered over the pool of blood, black as coal. “What manner of creature is this - are they using red lyrium?” The alarm in his voice was matched by his revulsion. He turned abruptly, eyes shining in the darkness and it made her look.

A few Avvar had begun approaching, but none of the Inquisition had followed - someone had likely reported it as a false alarm - and the boy was being interrogated by his friends and the sharp woman from Ramhornshold.

“Back!” Aslaug barked and stood with knees she wasn’t sure would hold her, steeled the tremble in her voice, and adjusted so her body would cover most of the corpse behind her.

A young man with a broadsword across his back narrowed his eyes, jerked his chin at her, “What’s that then, behind you, god-marked?”

“An assassin from the Mire, the boy caught him.” The lie fell off her tongue more easily than it should have but the sour taste of it couldn’t compare to the imagined taste of the body behind her.

He huffed, “Let me see.”

“He wears false heraldry. Augur Solas and battlemaster Cullen need to see it first; we don’t want panic in the Hold,” she said more confidently than she felt - was it false? She hadn’t seen this creature in the future, only the mages were used as soil to cultivate more lyrium.

The young man, only her younger by maybe five years, looked to Solas, and spoke in a doubtful tone, “Is it augur Solas then? Looks like city-folk to me.” But he disregarded the body, barked in Avvar to the woman from Ramhornshold who scowled at the interruption of her questioning, and he trekked back to their yurt. The other Avvar on the sidelines who had heard the interaction spoke amongst themselves quietly, but left. Augur Hrathgur remained, half-dressed, even as his bed companion retreated back into their yurt. Aslaug forced herself to turn away; she wasn’t beholden to him anymore and it would be folly to continue to act as though she were.

Solas stood, features some strange place between lax and stern, “An assassin from the Mire?”

“What could I tell him? That the boy killed a tower-keeper - that _that thing_ is a tower-keeper?” She pointed an accusing finger at the corpse, “We have former tower-keepers in our Hold and may have more - I don’t want the Avvar being a hornet’s nest to be stirred.” Her eyes tracked back to the twisted deformity. “I didn’t see that in Redcliffe. I don’t know where it came from,” she confessed. “Nor do I know what to do with it.”

Solas cleared his throat, “Excuse me!” He called out to the boy in the small huddle of his friends. “We need to speak to you, please,” he used a soft voice meant to lure the anxious hunter.

The boy crossed over to them, his horn absent, with his bow and arrows tucked away. “Augur,” he said slowly, “I never meant to sound off for war, I panicked, I meant only to signal but I saw it from a distance, and it was just - I saw it lurking, spying - I-I panicked,” he wheezed out beneath Solas’s steady gaze.

He nodded understandingly, “What made you shoot to kill? Have you seen them before?”

“Well - I mean - I just, I was out hunting for rabbits the other night and I saw one of those things in the woods and - it...it looked like it was eating someone,” he whispered. “Don’t know who it was, didn’t see much of it, it was just pieces of something, you see? But I thought I saw an arm, but maybe it wasn’t...it was dark. That thing had the same armor and all...I didn’t fight it, I just ran,” he swallowed, “I should’ve said something, but I didn’t want to be called a craven for running.” He seemed to quail some under the weight of Solas’s gaze, hunching his shoulders and hunching further upon glancing at Aslaug. She stood at Solas’s shoulder, expression hard.

“When did you see it?” Solas asked.

“Few days before you all came back.” The boy pointed to the high crest of woods over a small mountain. “Over there.”

She could have bitten through her tongue, and rounded on him, spoke in a hushed hiss, “Did you tell that woman from Ramhornshold anything? Your friends? Anyone?” The boy shook his head and, with a brief glance at the templar behind her, she continued, “You keep quiet about this. It was an assassin from the Mire tracking us. You don’t know what it is, who it is.” His lips parted as if to speak, but she drove the point home by shaking her head. “I mean it. I won’t have panic in the Hold or between the Avvar; we don’t know what it is or why it’s here.” A half-lie. “Swear to me. Swear to your augur.”

The boy looked at the beast he’d killed and back to them, lips in a thin line. “I swear.”

She nodded and with a long exhale from her nose, said, “Good lad. Get some sleep,” and then she did a double-take, remembering the first horn that blew before the boy had answered it, “The first horn. Who was it that blew it?”

The boy pointed at woods. “I heard it come through there before,” and his voice squeaked at the end, “Your hunters use it. Do you think that was what drew this out?”

Her lips dragged down and she tsked. If those hunters had gone to the mountains to track game and met these things - the boy had mentioned he’d found one of them eating the pieces of something or some _one_ , then it was no wonder they possessed Havenhold’s horn. “To bed with you,” she muttered instead, “And not a word.”

The boy hesitated, mouth agape, but he fled to the comfort of his friends and left Aslaug and Solas be.

“A hunter’s signal horn,” she said and turned to Solas who grimly stared in the direction of the woods. “And a beast that knows what it means,” she toed the corpse and its head lolled. “Why wouldn’t anyone just respond to the horn? What was it trying to do?”

“Lure prey, I would imagine,” Solas said. “A group of hunters signaling to another group that whatever they hunted down was too large for them to move alone, or signaling in the night to cover whatever noises or shapes one might see in the dark.”

Aslaug wrapped her arms around her torso and tipped her head back. “Of all the bloody things to need to deal with right now, we’ve got people-eaters.”

Solas gave her a reproachful look. “Whoever they were eating likely came from Haven.”

The thought made her stomach give a sickening lurch. She didn’t want to consider her people being someone’s meat. Solas cocked his head and turned to the woods. “They’re using the horn again. They’ve moved further away, however, so it’s likely they saw their comrade fall,” he said quietly and one ear twitched at the sound she couldn’t hear.

She gnashed her teeth, mind made up, and said, “Help me carry this thing to the dungeons. We’re going to flush whatever these things are, _out_.” She gripped his feet and lifted him while Solas lifted his shoulders. She would never admit to being relieved that Solas, after a careful glance her way, had chosen to lift the thing by its shoulders. The sight of it, the knowledge that this thing existed was a burden in itself.

 

…

 

Cullen stared down at the thing, hand over his mouth and the tired wrinkles at the corners of his eyes worsened after a moment. Leliana stood on the opposite side, Josephine was the furthest from the corpse.

Aslaug had her arms crossed over her chest while Solas leaned against a pillar adjacent to where she stood.

“Maker’s Breath what are they doing out there?” Cullen ground out, anger in his tone and body language.

“Perhaps they are turning to the only lyrium lines left available to them since King Bhelen has prohibited selling it to the Order or mages without explicit endorsement from the Inquisition?” Josephine spoke from a distance, delicate hand to her nose.

“They have the carta...this is something else.” Leliana put her fingers beneath its jaw and inspected it. “In Kirkwall red lyrium was capable of many things on its own; driving people to madness was one of them. It’s possible red lyrium is more potent, or that it has somehow convinced the templars to use it. It did the same to Varric’s brother.” She sent a significant look Cullen’s way. “And Knight-Commander Meredith suffered from delusions before it gave her incredible power.”

“Does it make you eat other people?” Aslaug asked, forehead wrinkled.

Leliana hummed in thought. “We know very little of it. Varric’s brother did terrible things to his guards and servants, although I don’t believe he ate them. He forced them to eat lyrium, or cut off pieces of them.”

“The hunter boy, he claimed he saw one of them eating pieces of someone, and that was a signal horn our hunters used.” She pursed her lips, “A hunter’s horn but they knew what a signal from a returning company sounded like and mimicked it. That’s why your guards didn’t react?”

Cullen nodded, tearing his eyes from the body. “Yes, it happens occasionally - hunters, as I’m sure you must’ve heard at least once before, have a specific tune they use to differentiate themselves from a company horn of scouts or soldiers. At times, they may use that to announce they are still in the forest and have no need for assistance or search parties. A way of checking in without cause for alert.”

“I’ve never heard it,” she said in slight exasperation.

He gave her a wry half-smile, “You’re not often in Haven, and you haven’t been here when the hunters go out for days or weeks looking for game. It doesn’t surprise me you’ve never heard them.”

“Which means these aren’t simply mindless beasts and we are unsure how many yet remain,” Leliana announced, “But we know that they have been watching us for quite some time.”

“Any word on the field from your people on Cassandra’s position?” Cullen asked grimly.

Leliana shook her head, “Not yet.”

“We should track these things down and get them away from our people,” Aslaug said and tugged at her ruined fur mantle that covered the thing. She’d been forced to lay it over the body while she and Solas and quietly labored to bring it around the back to the side entrance of the dungeons to avoid curious eyes. She would never again wear it.

“Agreed,” Cullen blurted. “Allowing these...things to roam around in the wilds around Haven is asking for more trouble. Whether or not they belong to this Elder One or the venatori isn’t necessarily a concern right now; this boy of yours reported that he saw one of them _eating_ someone?”  

Aslaug grimaced. “Yes, couldn’t tell who the poor bastard was, but he said the person was just...in pieces.”

Cullen’s brows went down in a ‘v’. “Why didn’t he report it?”

A thought that had been tapping like an obtrusive knock in her skull since she’d been given the report, but she felt the need to defend him despite it. “He’s just a boy, and it scared him.”

“That is not the issue now,” Josephine intervened and Aslaug shot her a grateful glance which the woman acknowledge gracefully. “We must protect the people of Haven firstly, Cullen, we’ll need you to check in with our hunters, and warn them away from the woods for the time being. We can’t risk more of them.”

He shook his head, rubbing at the back of his neck, “Several went afield in preparation for the mages and the templars; they wanted to make sure we weren’t going to thin out what rations we have. I know a couple still haven’t checked in. Altogether that would make - Maker - a dozen hunters.”

“The guards haven’t reported anything unusual, no strange noises?” Leliana asked.

“Nothing beyond the usual; hunters signaling after a few days to let them know they’re still out in the woods.” He shot a disgusted look at the figure on the pallet. “Which we can now assume was this thing’s doing, or whatever it reports to.”

“Or its fellows,” Leliana corrected sharply. “The Herald is right; we have to clear the forest of these things regardless of who they answer to - and prepare for the consequences of whatever forces they may be spying for.”

 

…

 

The morning was overcast and Aslaug let Cullen speak with his guards and the groups of hunters quietly - raising the alarm would probably scare the things off completely and wouldn’t help with the necessity of catching whatever else was still stalking the woods.

Aslaug went to confront the Avvar that had gathered beyond Havenhold’s gates. She was not their thane, not even a thane of anywhere in truth, and they would not afford her such deference. At the head of them was the mage-woman from Ramhornshold as well as the young man who had confronted Aslaug and Solas on the ice. Not far beyond them, Hrathgur eyed them keenly.

Aslaug hefted her glaive and struck the ground with its tip and circled to its other side, allowing her shield to lay flat against her thigh although she kept her arm through its sling.

The man from Ramhornshold spat to the side. “God-marked Aslaug, your boy shot down an unknown enemy in your territory last night - an enemy whose heraldry you and yours hid and still hide,” and then he turned dramatically, spreading his arms wide to address the crowd and disrespectfully showing his back to her. “And if we came down to help hunt her enemies, does that not make them ours?”

A loud murmur of agreement spread through the crowd before the woman took over, “We answered the call from Havenhold ‘help us find the one who created the Great Wound and drove the gods to madness’, and I have yet to hear of who may have done such deeds. You spoke as if you knew. We left our Holds to answer, to honor Lurkerhold’s faith in you, but as of yet, it seems you exist only as a guard dog of the lowlands.” She pointed at the god-mark on Aslaug’s hand, “You may be god-marked, and you may close the the tears of the world, but know not what god marked you or why and neither do you.”

Aslaug kept silent, brows drawn together. A man from Snake-fish Hold spoke then, “Who is it?”

“As assassin from the Mire. We met them before me and mine killed the Hand of Korth. We suspect he’s from the venatori; that sect of Tevinter that wishes this Elder One as they call him to be their god,” she spoke surely, as close to the truth as she could afford until more information could be afforded.

“What heraldry was he wearing?” Hrathgur called out from the crowd, enormous frame taking up what could amount to two lowlanders, and she stiffened.

“The heraldry he wore belongs to a Hold known in the lowlands, but not one we suspect harkens to the venatori,” the omission of truth felt better than a lie although it still sat in her gut like a weight.

There was a moment of silence before he turned away and most of the Avvar seemed appeased, although not in total belief of what she spoke of, until only the two most vocal from Ramhornshold and Hrathgur remained.

The young man slicked his teeth noisily with his tongue, half-turned to the older woman at his side before he strode away and muttered loud enough for Aslaug to hear, “God-marked serpent-tongue.” The woman didn’t meet her eyes and only turned her back directly to Aslaug as she followed him.

Avvar politics weren’t the easiest to navigate either; as underhanded and sly as the lowlander courts seemed with their intrigue, Hold politics held to steadfast honesty and even a thane could be torn to shreds by their people if they misstepped. Omissions of truths were not so uncommon but once they were discovered, the people could make life difficult for the thane - moreso if there was a mage and they happened to have a god’s favor; gods that clung to one person often had loyalty to that person first.

Thanes were regularly put to the test throughout their reign; can you omit the truth well enough to not be caught and yet not be a liar? Can you navigate through enemies and fallen favors? Can you lead - are you capable and do your people agree? To fail a test at any time could cause a Hold to rise up and demand a new thane - and if the thane was judged to be so poor at their role, it could mean exile.

Had the Avvar gathered been her people in truth, as part of Havenhold, Aslaug would have failed the test and would’ve had to defend her right as thane. But they weren’t of Havenhold, she was not a thane, and though they tested her and found her wanting, nothing could be done without invoking Havenhold’s wrath.

That she was found wanting so much more than stung - in such a way - and not only was she found untrustworthy by the people who had answered Lurkerhold’s faith in her, she was found wanting as a thane and supposed leader of Havenhold.

But they were not of Havenhold and the Great Wound was the issue they needed assistance with; to close it, to hunt down those responsible.

Aslaug looked over the yurts briefly and met Hrathgur’s eyes across the distance and felt as he took her measure. His features were nearly inscrutable, but tight with an unknown pain that she felt she understood and felt it echo in her.

He knew she was lying. Lying to the people she came from, lying to the people she had always been a part of.

And yet she had not kept such a truth from Havenhold.

“We’re to be afield today, looking for remnants of the assassins. It’s not likely he came alone,” she said finally. “I’d ask - I’d ask that the Avvar stay here, while we hunt them.”

Hrathgur didn’t flinch, didn’t scowl, or grimace, or spit at her feet. He looked older in a moment, somehow aged by her words alone. “I’ll tell them it’s Havenhold business.”

She exhaled loudly, breath clouding the air, and gave a stilted nod of respect before leaving her old augur behind to seek out her Holdmates.

 

...

 

She had told Varric immediately after confiding her findings with the advisors; he knew red lyrium best, had seen its work in Kirkwall and the effect it had on people. He’d been disgusted, horrified and resigned as if he’d read it in a book long ago and was just now remembering how it had ended.

“Shit, let’s go let Tiny know,” was all he’d said. She’d left that to him as they wouldn't be moving until nightfall and it would do no good to seem harried in her Hold - to the Hold, the Avvar they gave guest-welcome to and the enemies in the trees that likely still watched them; warier now that the boy had killed one of theirs.

She’d left that to him to hound Solas’s last steps to the top of a knoll that overlooked the Avvar travel yurts and could take in the sprawl of wintry forest that led to the side of a mountain.

His arms were behind his back, straight and focused and dignified in a way she’d never seen anyone else be but him.

He caught her eye and tilted his head which she took as invitation to stalk beside him. The pale disk of the sun was steadily rising but little warmth followed it and its form was obscured by thick rolls of clouds, possibly heralding a snowy night.

“I saw you speaking to the Avvar…” He began, stopped and seemed to grimace, before he continued, “How was it? How are you?” He paused at the second question, a catch in it as if he hadn’t meant to speak it aloud and meant only to wonder about it in the privacy of his own mind.

“Well enough. They know I’m not telling them something but I’m no thane of theirs. They know this is - this is Havenhold business,” and with a breath of confidence that felt shameful and somehow satisfying at once, she said, “And I’m loyal firstly to my Hold.”

He nodded, not glancing at her once, but there was a thin vein of tension in his shoulders and neck that ran to his jaw and mouth - she could follow its trail the same way she followed game in winter. “I was told we would not be going into the forest until nightfall, when they are most active, in hopes of drawing them back out so as to avoid an ambush into what would probably be their lair. I noticed that Commander Cullen spoke to a group of hunters and only the officers among his soldiers. A wise approach. There is entirely too much suspicion in Haven, especially since Cassandra and the others aren’t back as of yet; we cannot afford infighting.”

Aslaug knew all of this. It had been discussed between all of them down in the dungeons while they’d breathed in the stink of that thing, and Solas rarely stated the obvious without leading up to something else. He was leading up to something else by mentioning the infighting.

The plan was set to deal with those creatures; all of Havenhold’s hunters had been recalled and archers were posted along the parapets to look out for more enemies, only vaguely described by Leliana, and Aslaug’s attention to the issue waned since her hunt would only begin once the Lady of the Skies tugged her night-veils over the sun and blinded the world.

He would drive her to madness, careful stepping and circling and unsure footing as if she were a child learning how to scale rock faces again. She knew him well enough to know where this was going, and her impatience and frustration pressed in to her harshly.

“Have I done something wrong?” She blurted and Solas blinked, turned to look at her in a bewildered manner. He opened his mouth to speak but she continued, “Do you not want me?”

His mouth snapped shut like a trap closing on the leg of an unfortunate beast. She had the uneasy notion that she might be the unfortunate beast. “Excuse me?” He rasped, voice softer in the chill of the morning. She felt the heat of his warming spell pour off him, hotter than she liked but she refused to give ground in this; he didn’t understand her, and she couldn’t reach him through his customs, which he had never actually revealed to her were unknown and confusing to her.

“In the future of Redcliffe, you wanted me. You weren’t shy about it, but then you died. I come here and I try again, and you pull away as if - did I read you wrong? I let you braid my hair. Paint my face. We take care of each other even though we don’t need to - is it so different down here? Was I supposed to show it differently? I tried to be less...bold about it, I know things are done differently here. Or am I forcing myself on you?” She spoke quickly, without filter and though she cringed and felt a kind of foul self-loathing at the thoughts of forcing herself on Solas, on anyone, she had to know. Was the Avvar way, blunt and honest and touch-filled something lowlanders found despicable in their early courting? Was it unspeakable?

Solas stared. It was not encouraging. “I…” His voice trailed off and no more words came to him before he glanced to the side.

She pursed her lips and turned to him fully, “Is it unwanted? You have to tell me Solas, the Avvar, we don’t court subtly and so we don’t refuse or accept shyly or reluctantly. If it’s unwanted, I’ll stop - I’ve just...I thought that because you wanted me there, you’d want me here too. If I’m wrong you must tell me. Our friendship matters more to me than a girl’s half-dream come alive.”

Finally, he spoke, “Half-dream?”

He sounded curiously blank now, as if all emotion had drained from him, and she forced herself to not let the disappointment show, and answered him, “I’ve always wanted you. I just never thought you’d want me back,” she insisted with all the genuine honesty she could muster, and she was unable to stop the wave of shame that washed over her to even think it, “You are my most trusted friend and I thought - I thought this was just the way it was done here; that it meant to be a game of some kind, but if it isn’t and this was refusal and you were trying to spare my feelings, I’ll beg your forgiveness. I never meant - whatever I may be; herald, thane, god-marked; I am always Aslaug and you are not bound by anything to accept or spare my feelings if this is an unwanted thing.” It grasped her throat, slid a chill into her stomach, squirming like a pit of snakes - because if this was undesired in any way, even if Solas forgave her, she would never forget her actions; stupid and foolish and selfishly aggressive in a way that was seen as a crime among the gods of a Hold.

His countenance softened, edged in lines of melancholy and it made his eyes squint with it, the hidden lines of his older face carving out a map upon him that she rarely saw. She inhaled swiftly, kept her spine straight and nodded to herself; she had done this to him, to herself, to them, and if she had any sense left, she would leave this thing in the dirt and cast her pride to his feet to save their friendship, what little he would grant her after this.

“This is difficult,” he murmured, hand pressing long fingers to her forearm so suddenly and unexpectedly every muscle in her body froze. “There is - you are the herald of Andraste, and while I am surprised to find myself - not necessarily adverse to this, there remains obstacles. The ones you face now, the ones you will face. But no - I am not adverse. Not as I was.”

Her dark eyes widened, locked on his - smoke and starlight and the sea - “You aren’t,” she said skeptically, “Did you even know what I meant by any of the things I did?”

His mouth twitched a little. “I was unsure about the certain aspects of grooming and their connotations, but your tendency to watch unashamed and stare blatantly were decidedly not subtle. I do appreciate that you tried, however, and I must assume that typical Avvar courtship is much more...spirited.”

“Is it not unwanted?” She dared not move, a foolish paranoid thought that raced through her mind that should she spoil the moment, he would fly from her and never again would they come this close to understanding. She had to know he wasn’t doing this because he was somehow afraid of her reaction. He had never shown signs of such actions to her before, but the revelation of this was - it was enough to make her question what she knew.

His hand fell from her slowly to alight on the ends of her wild mane and she felt the nearly phantom tugs of it all the way to her scalp. His thoughtful look had erased the one that had resembled heartbreak too closely for comfort. “No, not in that way. I have things beyond the Inquisition that I need to tend to, a promise that must be kept, and the trials that are laid before you...it seems extremely ill-advised. Many people would not look kindly on you for courting an elven apostate.”

She tsked. “As if I live and die by the words of people. If it is not unwanted - ”

He stepped back and she leaned into his wake instinctively. “I need time. But no - you were not forcing yourself on me. It’s been a long time, and there are many other things to consider, but I wouldn’t have you go on thinking that you had somehow befouled our relationship or had otherwise...dishonored either of us.”

“Time,” she parroted, goggling at the direction this talk had taken and still feeling swept along in a rush she hadn’t expected. “Do I have to guess when the time is done? Will you tell me?” Was this a lowlander custom? Push and pull, tug and shove, and then time - when was there time enough? A week? A month? They didn’t do things by years did they? Would she have to guess, but not enough to annoy him, but not so little that he thought she lost interest? Or would he tell her when the time was enough?

Solas, for whatever reason, looked caught between amusement and fondness, and said, “Time enough for us both to consider what lies ahead, and enough to decide what can follow this.”

That was vague, not untrue, but vague. “We’ll...we’ll have to talk about courting means to either of us,” she said finally. Reluctant as she was to throw herself at the mercy of the complexities of lowlander courting, the reality of it was that she was courting a man from the lowlands even if he wasn’t a lowlander in spirit, and that meant understanding how exactly she was meant to approach this. “In courtship, you say yes or no, but if you say yes or maybe later, then the one doing the courting brings gifts or spends time with the other person,” she said aloud, turning her eyes to him. A giddy sensation, like the odd flutter in her stomach when she went somewhere new and unknown to her, filled her marrow and quickened her blood. It was all she could do to hold back on this excitable, unbroken thing caged in her ribs that bucked anew.

He cocked his head. “Were you courting me already?” His mild surprise was nearly enough to make her hang her head; wasted and she never even realized it. 

“Yes?” She squinted. “I laid myself at your feet, asking for permission, however poorly I managed that. Do you want gifts?” A fox pelt stitched with ram skin or a staff carved from pine with a heart of bone? Succulent pheasant or pike from the lake - no he liked sweets - gods she didn’t want to have to brave the Frostback bees to steal honeycomb.

“Some cultures don’t dictate which one gives gifts, whether it be the one doing the courting or the one being courted. Either can give them. But you may be pleased to note that I don’t hold any particular love for gifts. I would prefer time - time to think, and time spent with you as we had before. I have...missed your company.” He smiled at her briefly, one cheek dimpling with the action, and he murmured quietly, “Although it is very flattering to be the one being courted.”

“If my time is enough, you have as much as I can give.” This was different from her other partners. There hadn’t ever been this element. A tumble in the woods or her bedroll and left alone by sunrise, or she stumbled away herself in the dark to wash her skin of sticky sweat. None of them had ever made her as frustrated as Solas, or made the dull roar of her blood in her veins sound as if she were standing next to a river, or made her relax with a look or a gentle smile.  
  
It was comforting in its own way too, to know he hadn’t understood her as much as she had thought. She wondered if he’d thought the same; she’d preferred him with teeth only because she knew his thoughts, if he preferred her to her loudness because he would know hers as well. The gulf of their differences had seemed much smaller than anyone else, but it seemed that it was still too wide to simply jump without considering the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanation about the appearance of the red templars: I fully refuse to believe that Corypheus (upon losing the mages to the Inquisition) wouldn’t have already developed red templars and sent them to spy/undermine defenses at Haven while he prepared for a surprise assault. I think when they sealed the Breach, it forced Corypheus to act faster (hence the rather poorly thought out charge that was really only salvaged by his dragon). As for the red templars’ more...unsavory practices in the chapter, red lyrium (as we know) is Blighted (and people who are Blighted become darkspawn which eat people) and also causes madness. 
> 
> To address the misunderstandings between Solas and Aslaug fairly briefly; it’s part of the reason I put culture clash in the tags. I’ve taken Aslaug (Avvar who never actually had direct, continuous contact with any other culture besides dwarves) and Solas (ancient Elvhen being who was asleep for thousands of years, and seems to still be navigating other cultures) - they will definitely not understand each other on a lot of issues. The reason they understand each other more on subjects like beliefs, spirits, is because Aslaug expects to need to explain herself and so does Solas. Something like innuendo, something that is raised to be more instinctive and simply understood isn’t always something to explain because someone won’t expect to have to. This chapter touches on it but it definitely doesn’t fix anything; more of an acknowledgement that neither one understood the other. This seems anticlimatic (I know some of you were expected a blowup), but remember that Aslaug, even though she's assertive and confrontational, is Avvar and within a Hold, it's seen as poisonous to just let things go until it becomes a real issue (which she'd been salty at Solas before in the Mire).


	23. afroð por

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes drew away from her god-mark slowly to meet her gaze. “This will mean the end is closer, but remember that it is not yet the end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's been some changes in my life and I'm getting back into writing again since I've been putting it off. I’m honestly amazed I’ve gotten this far with this, and for the continued support it’s gotten since I’m never actually confident in my writing. My ask on tumblr is back up in the event there’s questions you don’t want to address in the comments. Thank you everyone who reads, comments, or leaves a kudos on this, it means a lot more to me than you know.

Their quarry was unknown, their numbers were unknown, but the purpose, Cullen had stated, was to find their missing people, and kill whatever the monsters that plagued the woods of Haven. Aslaug was inclined to agree; from the brief encounter with that templar on the ice, she doubted these things died easily and she had no wish to send out more of her people without investigating whatever else was out there herself.

Only Solas, an elven scout named Pyp, and the two elves in the Chargers company could see in the dark. Aslaug was left with Iron Bull, Varric, two Chargers named Grim and Krem, as well as a small squad of trustworthy soldiers that numbered only at three to stumble their way through the dark. Frid and Run were unkind, shrouded in thick clouds that threatened rain or snow later, the stars were hidden, and the eerie silence that had taken over the woods since their discovery in the early morning hours before dawn was ever pressing.

Aslaug navigated through the slick snow with careful footing although she still had to rely on the elves ahead for guidance since torches were thought to be unwise. It might’ve led to the templars abandoning their post and reporting back. Or might’ve invited an ambush.

Pyp and the Charger named Skinner stalked ahead, following signs in the darkness as they led the party deeper into the woods.

There had been a clearing they’d passed not long ago that had lain daringly close to Havenhold that had been smeared in meat gone sour, only recently frozen due to the drop in temperature. Pyp had identified several tokens of the hunters that had gone missing - seven tokens while a dozen were gone - while Skinner unearthed shredded leather armor. They didn’t linger, although some of the soldiers insisted on turning back to give the remains a proper burial insomuch as they could manage, but Aslaug pressed them on. It was unlikely the other hunters were alive, if that many were already dead, but there was still a chance the other five might’ve survived thus far and she had no intention of letting them wait.

At times, she would brush against Solas to confirm she was still walking straight and not about to trip over a rock or root. She didn’t reach out to grab his wrist or clasp his shoulder, and he didn’t reach out either as he had in Redcliffe - but the Solas in Redcliffe had been touch-starved and full of a rage and grief she hadn’t had time to understand completely - but their distance and closeness was once again companionable and not something to suffer under.

However, the joy that had momentarily elated her when Solas had confirmed that he was _maybe_ interested had died a quick death when the hunting party was ready.

Solas stopped abruptly, hands around his staff, and he cocked his head and listened intently. Similarly, Pyp had stopped, grabbing Skinner’s arm and hushing her when she nearly said something.

In the muted darkness, Aslaug could barely make out shapes, but she saw a hazy red glow in the distance. It wasn’t a fire, couldn’t be, not with the wind blowing relentlessly.

“They are encamped, but none of them are asleep,” Solas breathed in her ear. The rest of the humans, the qunari, and dwarf had all been signaled to stop when the elves had stopped moving to listen and look in the distance beyond what their companions could see. “I do not see the other hunters,” he whispered.

“How many?” she rasped. Her hand tightened on her glaive, newly sharpened, her shield arm raised.

“Five,” he responded, “One of them appears to have been a captain at one point in his life - I see his armor. They have a rogue.”

Of them, the rogue would be the most dangerous. When they’d battled bandits and other templars in the Hinterlands, Aslaug had been taken aback by how proficient at killing these rogues were - she might’ve died if it hadn’t been for Sera’s quick reflexes, bouncing all around her and shrouding her in shadow while taunting their enemies from her while she recovered. Rogues didn’t fight, not like warriors or mages; they killed. It was a vast difference she thought she’d known until she’d come face to face with it. It had been a moment of realization for her when she saw them afield; Varric and Sera were rogues and they were talented at it, but it seemed to be the nature of the beast rather than their unique talent.

Aslaug wasn’t fast enough to kill a rogue on her own. She’d be pierced with a dagger to her belly before she raised her shield to topple one properly, or she’d have an arrow in her throat before she could erect a frozen barrier around her. Sera and Varric had seemed anomalies until she’d run across more rogues. No. They were fast, unpredictable, and boasted a skillset so far beyond what she had ever encountered or had been taught _to_ counter. She didn’t want to face one in the dark.

“We have to kill the rogue first,” she hissed.

“Agreed.” Solas’s eyes shined in the darkness. “How should we proceed? We have the advantage of numbers, but we are as of yet unaware of what dangers they present, or if there are more camped further out.”

Aslaug bit the tip of her tongue for a moment. “Varric is our best archer but he can’t see in the dark.”

“I could stun them, but the effects will wear off quickly - I’ll have Dalish create veilfire so we might have light. I would prefer not to accidentally burn the forest around us.” He regarded her briefly, eyes shining like lamps. “And I would suggest you advance first while they’re stunned; you are used to close combat.” 

Aslaug nodded and hissed over to Dalish.

Dalish had heard the entire conversation between them and with a quick jerk of her head, raised green god-fire that emanated no heat around the group -

An inhuman howl that chilled Aslaug’s blood, even made of ice and stone as she was, broke the silence of the woods. A cacophony of snarls and growls brought back the fear touched memories of her younger self during the Blight, when the darkspawn had crawled through the crevasses and dug their way up the long caverns that yawned to depths untold, to attack Lurkerhold’s summer camp. They’d made similar noises; indecipherable sounds that mimicked words with a blank, rabid, animal understanding of the world.

Solas had raised his staff - a white flare of light went off that nearly blinded the group momentarily caused the templars, sickly and red, to screech, blinded and deafened by his assault.

Varric loaded Bianca and fired twice, humming beneath his breath as he stalked the rogue when Aslaug shouted at him to do so; even blinded the rogue hissed and twisted itself into the shadows, spinning from its attacker. Its arms weren’t truly arms anymore; from what Aslaug could see, she could only describe them as spirals of solid crystal, spiked in odd places and burning with a vicious red light. It slammed into one of the unsuspecting Inquisition soldiers and he dropped to the ground, dead or unconscious.

Varric bounded after the rogue, shrouding himself in darkness and abruptly his humming stopped before a grenade was launched from above and caught the rogue that still managed to function. The templar slipped in the snow and grease, unable to get its feet beneath it.

Varric engaged the rogue directly. Dalish watched over him along with Krem and Grim whom were poised to jump in and forced the rogue to keep its attention on them. Solas lashed out with his bladed staff at another templar, but it raised its shield to avoid being slashed. Two of the Inquisition soldiers along with Pyp, all lightly armored and significantly smaller than the templars, engaged another one while Iron Bull swung his warhammer at a third.

Aslaug fade stepped and purposefully overshot it to slam into the remaining templar.

No longer stunned or blinded, the creature snarled and showed a mangled face that resembled the one the boy had shot down that she had killed, and swiped at her. She leapt back, and with the butt of her glaive, slicked the ground in front of her with a sheet of ice before taunting the creature with her blade.

It stepped directly on the ice, lost its footing and landed on one knee with a jarring crack. She heard a sharp yelp and recognized the sound - one of the templars had gotten a hold of Skinner and flung her but Grim managed to cushion her fall with his body. Another Inquisition soldier was bleeding from his head and seemed dazed, the other cradled a mangled arm but a templar lay sprawled in black blood beside them.

Aslaug paid for her brief moment of inattention when the templar, still on one knee, caught the edge of her shield and lifted her as it stood. The stretch of her arm being used as a rope caused her to yelp briefly. It growled in her face, stinking of rotting meat and sour decay. Aslaug braced her feet against its armored abdomen, and not having the range of motion to effectively use her glaive, pushed ice through her body and exhaled the chill through her nose. The beast inhaled sharply from the cold, but remained upright and strong enough to begin twisting her arm in the opposite direction.

It began to laugh and Aslaug tried to push more ice magic into it, tried to freeze its blood but whatever manner of beast this was, it resisted her and as close as she was to its armor, she didn’t try electrocuting it. It lurched suddenly and it looked down stupidly in confusion. Aslaug followed its gaze - it had sunk into the snow which had turned into a white mush of quicksand, and there were roots wrapping around its legs and climbing higher.

Without even a hint of panic, it began trying to pull its legs free, wobbling unsteadily with the effort. Aslaug saw the opportunity and summoned an spike of ice shaped like a dagger and drove it into an open slot of its gauntlet; it pierced the skin reluctantly as if it were the leathery hide of an animal but the flesh beneath was sickeningly soft like spongy moss. It gasped from the cold and relinquished its hold on her, she stumbled, foot catching in the mush but she managed to roll away, back on her feet. One arm burned from being held captive, but she brought her glaive up and drove it into the open face of its helm, right through its eye and out the back of its head with a magic-enforced push.

The roots had swallowed nearly all of its lower body.

She barely had time to wonder at the magic before she followed the cry of Dalish who was pierced through by the rogue. Krem vaulted over a log and brought his shield up to bash it from the elven woman, but it had vanished again. Krem moved to guard her, flanked by a battered Grim. Varric appeared from the hollow of a tree, sweating and panting heavily into the cold air, Bianca cranked back with a bolt ready.

Across the way, Iron Bull was handling two more templars with Solas’s aid - and Aslaug saw more shapes outlined in the flickering god-fire. Pyp threw himself into the light of the green flames with a crooked smile on his face and he met her gaze and jerked his head back, “Reinforcements, I found them - behind,” he said quickly and leapt out of the way when an arrow landed near his foot.

“Show me,” she rasped loudly and Pyp ran to the treetops overhead and dropped a sputtering flare in the middle of the group. Deformed faces and bodies, crystal blooming from the inside out; they were a nightmare to behold in the dark.

Spinning her glaive, numbing her burning shield arm, Aslaug drove the point into the ground and ice spiked up, high and vicious and she heard a sudden squeal of pain from the moving shadows. The ice formed a barrier - not around her people, but around the shapes that moved beyond the scope of the god-fire and effectively trapping them.

Varric seemed to have a knack for understanding battle strategy implicitly and flung a grenade over the top of thick ice barrier. It broke on the other side of the spiked ice wall Aslaug held, spilling forth a bright purple mist. The shrieks of the creatures caught behind her trap rose in volume, the sounds of scrabbling claws and the high squeals of metal armor scraping the sides were nearly deafening. Already, she could feel cracks forming, but she pressed deeper, gritting her teeth and holding them there; she had no idea how many were there, but she knew only two of the original five were dead and the damn rogue was still on the prowl.

She felt a presence behind her but the heavily accented voice of Skinner let her relax; she was guarding her back. A form was flung screaming into a tree where it landed with a crunch and twitched before it lay still. Iron Bull laughed nearby, and she felt the distinct pressure of Solas’s magic before it struck; an enormous hand pulled forth from the land of dreams and crushed the other templar.

Varric had mixed together another grenade quickly from his utility belt and launched it into the abused encircling ice trap Aslaug had created. When the glass bottle shattered, the ice cracked and the enormous fissure that opened up allowed the black sludge to pour out. The forms within stumbled unseeingly; Varric had launched a confusion grenade the first time but his second grenade was pitch. In the unsteady light of Dalish’s god-fire, all the forms covered in the pitch melded together as one horrific amalgamation of claws and hands and malformed faces, glowing red spikes and eyes.

Solas called down his fire; red and hot to the point that even looking at it burned her eyes.

The pitch caught, flames raced and Aslaug summoned her ice barrier to entrap them in it and not allow the fire or pitch to spread. Sweat rolled down her temples and she could taste iron in her mouth.

Out of the corner of her eye, despite her concentration, she saw smoke coalesce and form a shape; crystal arms and a face melted into armor. She held steady, unable to move else she risked her barrier coming apart and endangering her people or the trees with the danger of Varric’s pitch, but she dreaded the shape she saw.

A vicious hiss like a cat - the slash of curved daggers and the templar rogue squealed when its outstretched crystal arm cracked and wept black blood. Skinner spat in its face - “Disgusting monster, come here and let me pull your insides out!”

It shied from her, wounded and stunned from the amount of blood that poured out, but there was a crackle of lightning, and it convulsed before falling to the ground silently, smoke pouring from it. Dalish wavered, leaning on her staff and Krem, “Fenedhis,” she muttered.

The screams within Aslaug’s renewed ice barrier grew hoarse, but didn’t die down for a long time.

Solas’s fire burned without rest due to Varric’s potent concoction, and Aslaug’s muscles began to shake while she held the barrier. Solas held a lyrium potion to her mouth and she drank greedily, feeling her strength return to her until he let his fingers graze her shoulder, over the open space of her slick neck, and she let the trap go. The ice melted and sloughed to the ground like shed skin.

The remains within were twisted skeletal cinders not unlike those at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Warped steel and bone, charred flesh - but the red lyrium glowed, eerily intact and pulsing with life that should no longer have been there.

Aslaug stood with a wobble, clutching at her glaive’s shaft, and leaned her shoulder into Solas’s to keep her balance.

Varric stared at the circle of piled bodies - a number anywhere from six to ten, but it was difficult to tell when many of them had melted together due to the heat. “Shit,” he sighed, “As if Kirkwall wasn’t bad enough.”

Iron Bull’s voice boomed across the clearing, “Hey Solas, Aslaug, either of you know any healing magic? Dalish was hurt pretty bad. Bastard nearly gutted her.”

Both mages turned in the direction of his voice to see that the qunari warrior had created a seat for the elven woman using one arm while one hand applied a decent amount of pressure if the look on Dalish’s face said anything.

Aslaug steadied herself and Solas went forward, asking Iron Bull to lower Dalish so he might see what he could do after warning them that he was no healer.

Pyp stiffened from where he stood on a tree. His eyes glowed in the guttering light.

“Seeker Cassandra and the others have returned. They’re at the gates. I can see their banner,” he said, turning to Aslaug. With thinned lips, he continued, “And I see templars with them.”

One of the soldiers, the one with the head wound, spoke up with slurred words, “We can’t let them in. These things were templars, the Herald and the Commander were right - we can’t let them in Haven.”

Pyp fingered the dripping dagger at his hip. “These ones ain’t covered in lyrium, Todd.” His eyes flicked back, narrowing, and Aslaug found it in herself to marvel at the acuteness of his senses - and wondered just how much better an elf’s senses were compared to a human’s.

Out of everyone Pyp seemed to be in the best shape, and with good reason - he was nearly unnaturally quick on his feet.“Pyp,” she said and he looked at her intently, “Go ahead of us and let Seeker Cassandra know what we encountered here - quietly. I don’t want the entire Hold up in arms.”

He gave a stiff nod, “As you order, Herald. It may be best to warn the incoming templars about their fellows. There's no telling whether this...change was of their own free will.” He slid from the treetop to the ground gracefully and took off at a sprint.

Varric watched him, somewhat bemused, “I have no idea what they feed that kid but I want some.”

Aslaug huffed, felt drained and weary, “Could use some of that myself.”

Dalish limped with the help of Skinner, still spitting Dalish curses angrily while Skinner supplemented with what sounded like Orlesian. Grim hovered around Iron Bull who sported a slash to his middle even as he bragged about the scar it would leave while Krem held a wrap of bandage and fussed over him.

Aslaug slowly walked beside Varric, feeling an ache in her bones that came from calling forth on her mana too much.

Solas came to her other side, lightly touched her elbow and braced her shoulder in front of his and matched her steps even as he summoned god-fire when Dalish’s finally went out. The Inquisition soldiers limped behind as the group slowly followed the trail of footprints in hopes of recovering the hunters.

There were little remains, scattered and torn, in a clearing not far from the original templar encampment. The group collected tags and identifying possessions but there was little else to be done. Solas burned the remains when the practical one of the Inquisition soldiers spoke up; they couldn’t carry them back, just meat and bones. While they burned one clearing, the soldiers familiar with the Chant of Light spoke a eulogy for their fallen. The first clearing they had found tokens in received the same treatment. Aslaug cast powdered ash from a pouch at her hip in each clearing and drew a triad of interlocking triangles.

The march back to Havenhold was solemn now that the adrenaline and fearsome joy of conquering an unknown, powerful enemy had worn off in favor of distant grief and the discomfort of knowing that the venatori had so foul an ally.

In the distance, they could hear a great clamor from Havenhold and Solas grasped her shoulder.

Aslaug grit her teeth and forced her body to move faster, force the sluggishness from it like a snake shedding its skin, and managed a jog that the other able-bodied followed.

Lines of Inquisition soldiers ran about, Cullen at the eye of the storm giving orders with his sword in hand. He caught sight of them moving to them slowly and yelled Cassandra’s name.

Cassandra emerged from the training yard where she was directing the templar forces she had brought - which only looked to number at three dozen - and in the light of the torches all around them, Aslaug saw old blood crusted on her armor, her face, her hair, and a waxy weariness. Not far from her, her destrier snorted and its sweat steamed in the cool air. “Herald!” The Seeker jogged over, sword sheathed but shield out, and clapped her hands to Aslaug’s upper arms, “Thank the Maker. I was worried you would all be in the mountains longer. I was about to go searching.” And she did look worried, brows drawn and face pinched.

“What’s happening?” Aslaug panted, gulping air.

Cassandra released her and stepped back, shaking her head. “We were too late to save the templars.”

 _Save them?_ Aslaug thought with a fair amount of apprehension. Cassandra went to gain their support, so what had they needed saving from?

“They had - the Templar Order was meant to serve the Chantry and to protect those they shepherded and they failed even _that_ \- given themselves over to a _demon_. It serves the Elder One. The demon it mentioned that this Elder One was waiting to strike Haven. A...friend is watching the movements of the servants of this monster. He said he would find us when they’re on the move.” Cassandra’s heartache was apparent; to lose brethren like that - she had mentioned what the Chantry and being a Seeker meant to her. To lose a home and your people, even if it was to themselves...

The Avvar woman paused and then clapped a hand to the Seeker’s shoulder briefly, knowing the other woman could only bear sympathy for so long. “The scout I sent ahead, Pyp, he told you of what we found in the woods.”

Cassandra’s woe melted into hot steel. “I have seen it for myself. They’ve turned themselves into - into abominations. They must be destroyed. Such things cannot be allowed to exist. But for now, we must prepare ourselves for an assault, and we must close the Breach, _now_ , while we have the time.”

Aslaug could barely run, let alone imagine closing the Breach, but Cassandra held words of wisdom that she’d be a fool to ignore. The Seeker rarely exaggerated enemy forces, and she knew that whatever was coming would come to kill them all.

She nodded and swallowed another lyrium potion that hung from her belt before answering aloud, “Gather everyone up, and we’ll close it.”

 

…

 

The mages were less than thrilled about being rounded up side by side templars, but a young man with piercing green eyes and a reliable face spoke before tensions could rise; he offered his sword at the feet of the mages, spoke of the pledge he thought he’d been promised to and it reality, and of a future working with the mages.

Although she had no formal say in any of the politics now that the templars Cassandra had brought with her and the mages Aslaug had allied with were now officially in the Inquisition’s ranks, Grand Enchanter Fiona stooped in front of the young man and hefted his sword, tracing its blade before offering it graciously back to him. “If we are all to have a future, then we cannot look to the past for answers. I see soldiers, allies, before me. Before you stand free mages now allied with the Inquisition,” the elven woman broadcasted loud enough to be heard across the yard once all the necessary forces had gathered. “I look forward to what you and the men and women who stand behind you wish to become.” Her intent was clear, gaze focused.

Aslaug raised her eyebrows, chewing dried salmon as she listened; it was understandable now that she wasn’t witnessing the woman bow to Tevinter forces why she had been the one to lead the mages.

Ser Barris nodded, sheathing his sword. “I’m not sure what our future holds, but I know that the Order is no more and many of us have lost faith that the Chantry is even capable of guiding us,” he said, eyes downcast momentarily. “But I do know what we want; to be better, and to make amends however we can. We may not have participated in the atrocities committed, but we were sworn to protect and serve and we failed.” His voice held a natural timbre that was pleasant to the ear if only for the raw sincerity it carried.

Fiona looked pleased and a small smile played at the corner of her lips. “You aren’t the only ones who will try to find your place in this new world. We may not have the best history between us, but I have confidence that with the Inquisition supporting both of us, we can look to each other one day and perhaps name one another friend.”

No one cheered, but there was grudging acceptance, hesitance, caution, on both sides and none of them displayed hostility or an unwillingness to accept Fiona’s words.

Ser Barris planted a fist over his chest and bowed his head. “As you say, my lady. For now, let’s close the Breach and prove that at least all of us here care about the world and its state.”

The templars headed out first, in file, to the Breach and their march was a tempo that resounded across the empty mountain side not dotted with trees like a drum. The free mages went next with Fiona’s direction, and an Avvar summoning horn went off. So too, marched the magic-blooded Avvar.

Mixed in with the eclectic group, Iron Bull and the Chargers from the hunt, excluding Dalish, moved with the soldiers and a battered Blackwall trailed beside Cassandra who had parted from Aslaug to command the templar forces. Sera’s trousers looked to be in poor condition although the woman herself still moved like a shadow, far from the Avvar and mages and the templars. Vivienne, impeccable and somehow still flawless despite the appearance of the others, walked alongside Fiona, captivating some of the mages with her voice although Aslaug was too far away to hear what she said. Varric seemed to be keeping an eye on everyone alongside Pyp who had followed them.

Felix had stayed behind, finishing his ritual to cleanse his body of the taint, but Dorian ambled alongside Aslaug and Solas near the back of the free mages and in front of the Avvar.

Whether he was a nervous talker or he simply just liked to talk all the time about anything, Aslaug was grateful for the distraction. She kept eating salmon and hearty grain cakes to replace the energy she’d forcefully siphoned from her body to keep up that ice wall. The ache deep within her was not dissimilar to when she had just been acquainted to her god-mark; a hand reaching to pull her out by her very roots.

The second lyrium potion had restored her connection to her magic and the land of dreams, but her body still ached as if she had aged ten years in one night.

“...no idea how they managed it, but it seems as though the Dalish are onto something about the darkspawn,” Dorian continued, undaunted by the fact that Aslaug hadn’t spoken up and Solas had cast him a wary glance.

He was referring to Felix’s slow recovery and the seemingly ‘barbaric’ rituals attached to it. She couldn’t even muster up energy to defend her people’s practices regarding the blight’s sickness; the Dalish were better than they at it and they jealously guarded their secret. Their way was kinder, and rooted in the whispers of the wind and leaves, things untouched by the taint to leave their blessings upon the sick. The Avvar challenged the sickness, eating from a healthy animal that had the potential to kill the ill, because only the strong survived. It was the Avvar way, but she had to agree with Dorian that it didn’t make it the best way.

“But he is doing better. He doesn’t wheeze or have his fainting spells. He’s got hope, you can see it in his eyes,” Dorian said wistfully. “I haven’t seen that look on him in months. I know it doesn’t mean he’s cured or will be, but at least he’s got a fighting chance.”

“It’s the least he deserves,” Aslaug responded once she’d swallowed a mouthful of salted fish. “Good men are rare in the world.”

“Ah.” Dorian’s lips twitched and it made his mustache wriggle like a caterpillar over his mouth. “Are you by any chance looking to _steal_ said good man? I’ve heard all about your Avvar practices regarding spouses. All the Orlesian romance novels must have been very well researched for how...descriptive and colorful they are.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh if the Orlesians say it then it must be true.”

“Hah! You’re perfectly ready for the court, I don’t care what anyone else thinks,” he declared. Solas snorted quietly. “But truly, you must admit that you are rather fixated on Felix.”

She pursed her lips in thought. “Fixated on him the way anyone would be when trying to help a man who deserves a better death, a better story to tell. But it’s true. He’s a good man, and the world would be a poorer place without him.” She gave Dorian an appraising glance. “You’re a good man too.”

Dorian’s lips parted and he blinked rapidly, speechless for a moment. “Imagine what a world this is now, an Avvar woman telling a man from Tevinter he’s a good person.”

“The kind of world where it’s the truth,” she said firmly. “ _En man behöver inte vara från bergen för att vara värdig dem_. ‘A man does not need to be from the mountains to be worthy of them.’ If I’ve learned nothing else from my time in the lowlands, it’s that. You risked yourself to keep me safe, swore that you would and you did. I don’t know why you left your homeland or what you left, but I know this: you _are_ a good man.”

Dorian looked to the front again. “That got rather touching fairly quickly,” he said cheerily although there was an edge of discomfort, of embarrassment attached to it. Aslaug let the matter go.

Solas had been mostly silent the entire way over to the Breach’s origin, but once they entered the remains of the temple, he pressed his fingertips to the underside of her wrist and she turned to him. There were furrows in his face, between his brows, around his mouth, and his shoulders seemed to slump and tense at the same time. “Wait for the signal and…” his eyes trailed to her god-mark. “Be careful of not allowing it to solely latch on to you. The mages will lend their power first, but if something feels wrong do not hesitate to speak; the templars are here as a fallback.”

He was looking at her the same way he had when he had first used her god-mark to close a tear, but there were disturbing echoes that she could place having seen them on him during the future before he had raised god-fire to consume him and everything around him. She leaned close. “Solas,” she whispered, “What is wrong?”

His eyes drew away from her god-mark slowly to meet her gaze. “This will mean the end is closer, but remember that it is not yet the end.”

“Herald!” Cassandra called. “The mages finished preparing and the templars stand ready to intervene.”

He released her wrist and stepped away to join the other mages.

Aslaug promised herself to regard Solas and his words later, and stepped closer to the Great Wound. It twisted eerily but was silent and nearly calm. She flexed her hand, craning her neck to look at it.

She raised her hand and sought for the hook she had to grasp - and she felt it, felt the god-mark latch onto it greedily like a starving animal - Solas’s voice raised loudly behind her, the feeling of magic from so many others raised the hairs on her arms, felt their life force crackle in the air like a storm brewing - the god-mark gnawed at the hook, tearing at it and at her and she grit her teeth so hard she felt them squeak -

The Great Wound came alive, twisting as if in pain but her mark was relentless, a yawning maw of hunger that rarely showed its teeth - foreign magic joined hers, pouring power into the god-mark; smoke and starlight, jungle and fire, desert sand and wind, rain and ice, dreams and nightmares -

The god-mark’s teeth grew longer in her mind’s eye and she moved forward step by agonizing step, the jaws opened wider, and it was then that the Great Wound crackled and spat, but there was nothing for it, for the god-mark had taken hold of it too tightly for there to be any other end.

The Great Wound released its hold of the Lady with a great boom that launched Aslaug off her feet even as the god-mark tore the tear from the world. She landed on her back several feet away and let out a wheeze when she tried to breathe.

The sounds of the world were muted, undefined and hazy but it was beautiful; above her, the Lady was calm and dark as the open sea.

Solas’s face blocked her view suddenly and he relaxed upon seeing her blink at him. He helped her to her feet and Cassandra was not far away, hands open and a smile of approval on her face.

Solas kept his hand between her shoulderblades. “Well done,” he murmured when the crowd of mages, Avvar, and templars raised a cheer so loud it shook the ground. “Well done,” he repeated.

 

…

 

The journey back was noisy, the mages were smiling and congratulating each other and the Inquisition whereas the Avvar who accompanied them were loud in their praise and singing to the Lady of the Skies. The templars looked more at ease although they didn’t seem as cheered; perhaps because they had been unneeded.

Aslaug gnawed on more dried fish slipped to her by one of the older women from Snake-Fish Hold, crusted in good herbs and powdered leaves. Solas and Dorian walked beside her, quietly trading the occasional barb although they seemed to have an equal love regarding scholarly pursuits.

Varric had come around to pat her on the arm, winking and said, “Look at you, performing miracles at the drop of a hat.” She could only smile wearily back; it was not her in truth, it was the god-mark in her palm, but the Lady was no longer wounded as she had been.

“I assume you were taking notes?” She drawled.

He chuckled, “Once a writer, always a writer.” He tapped his nose. “And a writer can smell a good story a country away.”

She laughed, head tipping back. “And I make for a good story, skald?”

“You already do, I just hope it has a better ending than anything else I’ve written,” he said wryly.

The celebration was nearly immediate back at Havenhold; pans and flutes played and the Avvar set up drums and songs. People danced around bonfires - she saw Pyp bow to Josephine before holding out a hand and twirling the ambassador with a flourish that made her giggle like a girl. Adan sat drinking next to Maeve, Iron Bull and the Chargers had migrated to join the Avvar in their raucous celebrations with Blackwall seated amongst them beside Felix who looked as though he had some color to his cheeks.

Vivienne, Solas, and Dorian spoke, regal and noble in their bearings but as different as passing seasons. Fiona clapped and laughed while the younger mages joined in the dancing gaily. Sera drank with Varric while he spread his hands and gesticulated, mouth moving rapidly. Drink flowed, food roasted.

She sat perched on a rock. The Great Wound was closed, but the perpetrator remained at large so her hunt for vengeance was not yet done, and even if it was, and the Inquisition was needed no more - where would she go? She swore loyalty to Havenhold as surely as if she had been stolen, and to go back to a Hold was nearly impossible.

“It is good that we have this moment to celebrate. There are few enough moments of reprieve in this time,” Cassandra said. The warrior came to stand beside her seated form, arms behind her as she looked out at the revelry. “Before we left for Therinfal Redoubt, I wanted you to understand why we needed the templars. You said you were afraid of them, of what they may see you as, of what they would see you as without your mark and protection due as the Herald of Andraste, and I told you I did not understand, but that I would try.” The warrior fidgeted, and Aslaug watched, fascinated by this facet of nervous energy Cassandra was showing. “The templars there, the Lord Seeker, and what they’ve done...they willingly joined the Elder One, gave themselves over to a demon of _envy_ , and justified their actions as ‘protecting the world from a silent Chantry and rebellious mages’. The Lord Seeker...he allowed that demon to take his face.”

Aslaug stiffened - it was what she had originally thought had come to pass in Orlais when Fiona hadn’t remembered seeing her. It was what she had accused Alexius of, and she understood now why he had reacted so poorly to her accusation. It had been wrong, but not untrue.

“It was a trap to lure you there and have you delivered to their master. They must have known they had failed when they saw only myself and the others at the gates. They...meant to use us as puppets. The envy demon wished to take my form and slip into Haven, to get close to you and deliver you that way.” Her lips twisted. “Were it not for Cole, I fear what may have come to pass.”

“Cole?”

“Yes. He claims he is a spirit of compassion, drawn across the Veil because of the lack of kindness in the White Spire.” Cassandra fingered her belt. “I do not know if he is a demon or a spirit, but what I do know is that he came when I needed help. He prevented the envy demon from taking my thoughts and feelings and in doing so we were able to expose its true form and kill it.”

Aslaug’s expression shifted to display her wonder openly. “A god came to you.”

Cassandra gave her a glance that once may have reproving but now it was unsure. “Perhaps. He says he wanted to help, and now, he is watching for the movement this Elder One had been planning.” She sighed when a particularly loud shout went up. “And the scout you sent said you’ve already killed the ones in the woods.”

“They’re powerful and it would be a kindness to end them.”

Cassandra nodded. “I saw only two of their like at Therinfal Redoubt…” she shook her head. “Cole...Cole says they search for a song only they can hear, and that they are empty and dark.” Her voice thinned but the warrior made no effort to hide it. “A normal templar is not so healthy as you might think. They become dependent on lyrium, and eventually it saps away their ability to think independently and they must be cared for; bathed and fed, but remarkably, cruelly, there still exists their martial abilities and so they are still used in combat if there arises the need. They do not typically live long. If their mind does not leave them beforehand, they experience a sudden crippling depression in their late thirties, or early forties, and their moods become unstable. They...seek death in whatever manner they are able. Facts taken into account by the Seekers, by the Chantry and it has always been deemed a necessity.”

“To keep mages caged?” Aslaug asked bluntly, but not unkindly.

Cassandra didn’t nod or agree, but she didn’t disagree. “Templars do not die gloriously, or kindly. But,” she huffed a bitter laugh, “Neither do their charges. Caught in a circle of unhappiness.” She lifted her gaze to the exposed moons overhead. “When I asked him, Cole said that...normal templars are no longer whole. They search for something they cannot understand.”

To search for something and not know what it was, but to know in some way that you would not be whole without it...it would drive a person to madness. She had little love for the templars, but she pitied them for that, if nothing else. “Is there no way to help with that?”

“I do not know.” Cassandra met her gaze. “But I would like to try.”

Aslaug bobbed her head once. “The tranquil too. The Avvar haven’t met with anything like it before, but we might be able to help them.”

To her credit, Cassandra didn’t sigh loudly or impatiently at Aslaug and it made the Avvar woman wonder what had changed since the Seeker’s time away, but Cassandra grimaced. “They were made so because they were deemed dangerous.”

“By the people who tried to kill you, and use a corrupted god to take your face so that their leader could make himself a god.” She pointed out a little sharply.

“Still, there could be ramifications...we do not know how the tranquil will react if they are suddenly returned to their former state.”

“You wanted to help the templars be whole people,” Aslaug said. “The tranquil aren’t whole people now either.” She squared her jaw. “You don’t get to do that - decide which people are allowed to stay whole and which aren’t.”

She expected the Seeker to argue, but she only regarded her silently. “Then we shall have to proceed cautiously, on both accounts.”

“And if it doesn’t work, we at least tried,” Aslaug said.

The Seeker looked down, at her, then away again. “After what I heard about what happened in Redcliffe, I am relieved you managed to return safely and secure a proper alliance.”

Aslaug gave a small grin in return. “And I am happy to see you returned alive and whole, Seeker Cassandra,” and then a little more seriously, “I’m glad a kind god found you.”

Cassandra smiled hesitantly, but the moment of sympathy was not Aslaug's focus. 

A red glow coming from the direction of the woods lit the dark skies and she slowly rose to her feet. It was a line of fire that lit the mountain.


	24. afroð paif

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick author’s note - sorry about the absence, but I lost my groove after various things happened. The short story is this: I got pretty sick, RL has been very much in my face, and there were two separate incidences between my first post in December and since January where I had been told someone had stolen various parts of my fic (direct quotes/paragraphs) as well as using fan meta I made up for the Avvar for the specific purpose of TIFTM (although to be honest that doesn’t really bother me since I’m fine with that; it just so happens that the same one who took parts of my fic also took the lore). Both authors were already contacted and the fics were removed, so it’s done, but I just lost all desire to even post the rest of TIFTM if someone is going to use it for their own fic and not at least ask me/credit me with any of it. 
> 
> I’m going to be combing through the last several chapters to start editing again before I edit this one. If you see mistakes please let me know (it helps since I don’t always spot everything).

One moment, she was standing beside Cassandra after a brief interlude of mutual understanding and the next, there was fire coming down the mountain; an army of monsters marched on Havenhold led by another monstrous, unknown figure. She couldn’t see it very well; smoke clogged the air. 

She could only have the gods - and Hrathgur - to thank that the Avvar didn’t question the templars or turn on them upon seeing the armor and heraldry their enemy bore. They instead focused on the things that had once been human but now were unrecognizable, and hideous in their diseased forms. She would answer for her misdirection, but not now. 

The Inquisition scrambled quickly; running to the trebuchets and lines of archers firing into the mass that undulated as a single wave to them. Magic sprung in the air; fire and ice and storm, magic of blood and the mind rolling, rolling to face the enemy. 

What had been a night of celebration in closing the Lady’s Great Wound had so quickly turned into a warzone, as if even the slightest moment of respite was undeserved, as if it could not be tolerated. The blur from celebration to combat was dizzying but she worked through it as best as she could, barking out orders and calling for noncombatants to retreat. 

Aslaug bore the brunt of the monster’s weight with her shield, flinging it from her with a yell that scraped her throat raw, and stabbed down with her glaive’s point. The creature died with a gurgle. 

Flames from the free mages arced overhead, burning enemies and melting snow and heating rock, ice from the Avvar sung like wind chimes in the air. She heard the speech of the Avvar, of Ferelden, elvish, dwarvish - mixing and battling against the animalistic, mindless noises of the red templars that surged against them in a tide of maddened disease. Two soldiers cranked back the trebuchet and let it loose, unleashing smoldering rock and tar upon the enemy. 

“Go Herald! We can handle it now - hurry, the other trebuchet, please!” A woman called out before an arrow with a black shaft and red fletching went through her throat. The red templar that had loosed it snarled and let its head fall back in a hissing kind of howl. 

Aslaug made to move but the familiar feel of mountain-cold, Frostback-cold, at her side stopped her. An Avvar archer with hastily applied war paint of Harthold across his eyes, fired a shaft of ice back at the thing and it left a hole the size of her fist in the side of its head. The archer breathed out and nodded to her. He took the place of the Inquisition soldier and began doling out long spikes of ice, arrows coated in the wintry vengeance of the Avvar. 

She parted from the crowd alone. She had been separated from her closest Holdmates since the battle for Havenhold had begun. There was evidence of them around despite the utter chaos. She heard Iron Bull’s roar in the distance, Cassandra’s call to her Maker, Blackwall’s battlecry, Cullen’s bellow of command - she thought she spotted the shadowy figure of Sera take to the rooftops, firing off into the droves of enemies, and there were caltrops that littered the ground before the lines of Inquisition soldiers. 

In the distance, she saw the translucent golden blade of Vivienne’s magic lance through a templar captain, barrier reflecting the other shots of the templars around them, and the pulse of a blast rippled in the air like a pebble dropping in a pond. Dorian laughed somewhere and a wall of fire sprung up hungrily, black jaws and burning eyes closing on a templar that had cornered several people. Blue mist that smelled like honeysuckle and warm cider crept close to the ground and folded around the wounded Inquisition forces - Felix stood next to Dorian and was flanked by Hrathgur who wielded a warhammer spotted in black blood. A red templar rushed them but a spinning blur of brown and pale skin, dodging daggers catching and spilling blood prevented it from drawing closer to the healer. 

She ran through the mist, taking advantage of the gift Felix had bestowed to the battlefield and felt the ache in her side from taking a well placed shield point disappear, the swelling of her muscles softened and cooled. A dagger found its way into the eye of another monster that had snuck up on her, but it and its wielder vanished again when another yell came from Cassandra’s direction. 

The south trebuchet was swarming with the diseased creatures but the Inquisition soldiers stationed there fought back valiantly. She tilted her body into a sprint into the fray. Her glaive caught between the ribs of one templar, and she turned it to face another templar that had held a blade over its head to take hers. The blade cut into its fellow deeply with so much force it nearly halved the beast. It slipped from her glaive and she brought her shield up, breathing and finding her calm within the storm to hum, to find the center all Avvar were taught to find. The blade knocked at her shield. 

She circled and refused to be beat back, jabbing with her glaive although it was a feint it wouldn’t take; she had little power with it lethally this close. She hooked her foot behind its knee and tugged, went to its side as it unbalanced and shoved its back with the full force of her leg. Her glaive bit into its neck and tore ragged strips that stunk of spoiled meat before she forewent her physical weapon and simply ushered in the teeth of winter. It froze and ceased to move. 

A boot caught her chest and she went flying backward. 

The templar didn’t get far, as vines had swallowed its lower half by the time Aslaug rolled to her feet, coughing all the while. It shrieked and tore at the vines to no avail; the vines swallowed it down, curling into its ear holes and mouth and eyes. 

Solas was there just a few feet from her and he lifted one hand, palm up with his brows knitted and he turned it quickly, slapping it against the ground. Templars that had encircled them went down with the force of it, and though none of the them had been killed from it, they were immediately felled by the remaining soldiers. 

Aslaug felt a little relief at seeing him so close; she hadn’t seen him on the field or heard anything of him when chaos had descended. He swallowed and blinked harshly, nearly swaying. Anxiety beat in time with her heartbeat; she had no idea how long and hard he’d been fighting alone. She moved closer, pushed her shoulder beneath his. “Steady,” she panted, “Steady, Solas.” He didn’t push away from her, but took the solidness of her form into stride and breathed, setting a ring of flame around the soldiers. One of them was already cranking the lever back in turn with another, quickly aiming at the mountain. 

“Firing-” the Inquisition soldier didn’t get to launch the weapon. 

Overhead, a shadow blocked out Frid and Run with a screech that nearly deafened her. Black fire and shards of rock reigned down from above and coated the soldiers in blistering cinder, melting armor and setting the trebuchet aflame, at first, before it simply broke down into blackened pieces. Solas had a shield up over them and Aslaug strengthened it with frost, and she watched as the people who hadn’t been in the shield’s immediate range died with barely a whisper. The ground was hot even through her boots. 

Her people burned as they burned their dead, but it was all wrong. 

Solas straightened and his eyes, narrowed with concentration and calculation, honed in on a dark shape that circled Havenhold almost lazily. Even without elf-sight guiding her, Aslaug could see what it was. 

A dragon. 

Then the Inquisition was in full retreat and it tasted like bile in the back of her throat, stinging the line to her gut; they had been  _ winning _ . And the advantage they had gained with the trebuchets and other lowlander machines of war was  _ gone _ . 

“Quickly, I hear Commander Cullen; they are retreating to the Chantry,” Solas urged, hand at the small of her back. They jogged together and left their once companions and the trebuchet behind; there was no one left alive to gather. 

Ahead of them, Harritt slammed his shoulder into the door, sending out licks of flame, and Aslaug rushed to him, tugging him aside wordlessly to breathe ice on the fire. The door’s hinges creaked from the change in temperature and shattered. “What are you doing?” She snapped; there was a dragon overhead and red templars swarming the lake and hills - what was the man thinking? 

“That hammer in there is my father’s, I swear Herald, I’ll get it and get out. I just can’t leave it behind,” and he ducked through the broken remains of the door before ducking back out. “Don’t worry. I’m not dying for the forge.” 

Aslaug and Solas moved on, hurried by the sight of Cullen waving everyone in through the gates, sword in hand and black blood sinking into his armor and clothes. 

Cullen caught her eye and together, after the last stragglers of the Inquisition ran inside, they forced the door closed. 

“Everyone, get in the Chantry, now, now, move!” Cullen yelled over the clamor and people went where he pointed. “We can’t fight the bloody dragon and the Chantry is the only building that might stand!” 

Cassandra limped heavily but she was supported by a pale boy Aslaug didn’t recognize. Varric and Sera reappeared from the shadows, spilling over the walls and hurrying after Dorian and Felix. Vivienne and Iron Bull had cleared away the last stragglers of red templars within the walls of Havenhold, Blackwall assisted the mages in ushering everyone into the Chantry. 

The night glowed red all around them. 

The scent of burning wood and bodies suffocated what air there was to be had. 

Havenhold, her Hold, the Hold she swore herself to over her Birth Hold, the Hold she had finally come to terms with being truly a part of, was dying. 

The dragon flew overhead; a great screeching shadow. 

“Cullen! What do we do?” She snapped out. The once-templar looked at her grimly. 

“At this point? We make them work for it.” He didn’t say how.

The yurts of the Avvar were destroyed. Cabins within the walls were but guttering kindle. There were bodies, faces twisted in fear, but they were so disfigured Aslaug couldn’t recognize them. Cullen broke open the door of one such cabin on fire to drag Seggrit, the hawker, out. Solas pulled Flissa from the flames, Aslaug hefted Minaeve over her shoulder after she cast a glacial spell over the pots of oil, and Adan stood shakily on his own. They herded their charges to the last leg of the steps to the Chantry. 

A woman’s body - Aslaug remembered her as the quartermaster - lay before the Chantry. Her blade was bloodied, her body itself was battered, but from the look of her and the corpses of red templars around her, she had died to preserve the doors. Cullen closed her eyes and whispered a prayer to their Maker, then he slid her body to the side and entered the Chantry, waiting until the last of their ragtag group was inside before barring it securely. 

The Chantry lay the people of Havenhold bare before Aslaug’s eyes and she tried to swallow the lump in her throat upon witnessing it so nakedly. They were fearful, praying to their prophetess, to their Maker, to the Creators, to the Stone - to her, as if she was still worthy of their faith or trust. The candles in the Chantry burned low. 

Wounded soldiers, Avvar warriors, bewildered and suspicious mages, resigned templars stared at her, at Cassandra, at each other. 

“Cullen,” Aslaug huffed, voice thick with emotion, “What do we do? You are the tactician. You must have a plan…” 

His tired eyes closed and he sighed so greatly, his shoulders drooped. “We cannot fight that thing. Not with the weapons we have available. Its hide is too thick, and the trebuchets would be too slow to catch it unawares...not to mention whatever the bloody hell it’s breathing.” He paused, voice dropping, “We have nowhere to run. We are at the bottom of this valley, surrounded by those things. The trebuchets slowed them, but I don’t doubt that they’re clawing their way out of the snow. We’re trapped.” His solemn, passive acceptance of their fate gripped her. It was the voice to match the faces she saw all around her. 

“Not necessarily,” a man croaked beside her. Chancellor Roderick was leaning on Felix, and though his color was pale, his robes bloodstained, he appeared only weary. A blue glow continued to emanate from Felix as he downed a lyrium potion. “There is a secret pathway only those who have walked the steps of Andraste’s faithful would know. My pilgrimage...I’d forgotten about it until now. Andraste must have shown me, so I could show you.” A shaky hand touched her shoulder, squeezing weakly before patting Cullen’s arm. “There is always hope.” 

Cullen straightened, fire in his eyes again. “Then we need time to gather everyone and everything we can. We need to lure that monster away.” 

She had closed the Great Wound, but she had sworn to the Lady to avenge her. Havenhold was lost but her people still had a chance. However slim it was, however unlikely, however difficult the task was, Aslaug would take it. 

“You have a plan.” 

His lips twisted. “There is another trebuchet nearby, but it hadn’t been positioned for the battlefield. It is, however, pointed directly at the top of the mountain. If it’s aimed at the right moment, with enough force, it could bury Haven.” 

She nodded. “And take those brutes with it, send the dragon off.” It wouldn’t want to get caught near an avalanche. Dragon wings were more delicate than they appeared. 

“We would need to ensure that the dragon doesn’t follow the Inquisition’s backdoor retreat.” Cullen didn’t say it exactly, but she knew what he meant. 

“It would bury the Herald,” Cassandra broke in suddenly. Solas had walked over to them at that point, hands bloodied from healing and tending, with a frown on his face. “You cannot - she cannot - no. Absolutely  _ not _ . We cannot sacrifice you.” Cassandra’s accent thickened toward the end and she turned wide eyes on Aslaug. “We sacrificed one such woman in hopes of saving ourselves once long ago. It was - criminal. It would be repeating history over again.”

Cullen’s countenance turned reluctant. 

Aslaug shook her head, mane springing from the last of her braid. She slashed her hand downward. “Cassandra, you said that the red templars had joined with the Elder One, that he himself wished to attack Havenhold. If that beast out there is his, he is likely with it. Cullen said someone else stood beside the one templar he called Samson? Perhaps that is him. He’ll follow me. I’ve shamed him too much for him not to. A man who wishes to ascend to godhood will not want a savage from the mountains besting him again, especially if he is from Tevinter. It would be history repeating again for him too.” 

Solas’s brows furrowed. “And so you would sacrifice yourself when you have no way of knowing if this plan will work.” 

Aslaug took up her glaive again. “My god-teacher was called Loyalty. Would you imagine I would do otherwise?” The tightness in her chest didn’t leave, but it settled, and so did her nerves. 

Solas was shaking his head slowly, coming to stand and approach her with open palms. “There may be other ways to defeat him -”

Before Solas could finish his sentence, the ground shook and another screech accompanied it. Those inside the Chantry cried out, screamed, in fear and shock. Solas’s expression was - pleading, and perhaps he was already in mourning. Was that how she had looked at him before?

She felt steady, steadier than she thought she would. Was this what his future-self had felt in his final moments in Redcliffe before he raised god-fire? 

How strange, to be on the other side of this moment. Her palm was wet with sweat and blood, cold from her magic, but it slid around his jaw, fingers locking behind an ear, and she leaned her forehead to his. She felt his breath hitch for the briefest of moments, before his other hand slid to her face to mirror hers. She felt him; something old as the forests she had roamed as a child, smoke of ritual fires, starlight of the world above. 

“If you take this path,” he said softly, “There is no avoiding the inevitable, particularly if you try to go alone.” 

“I never meant to avoid it,” she said honestly, closing her eyes. They were close enough that she felt her eyelashes comb through his. “And you cannot follow. The Inquisition still needs your help. You’re the only one who knows the land of dreams so well.” And the mages would need a teacher for a different life if they were to survive and thrive beyond the walls of the Towers. 

She tugged away, not noticing how Cullen and the others close enough looked away. Solas’s hand lingered, still on her jaw with his eyes shut. “He will want to kill you.” He looked as if he wanted to argue further, but was unable to voice it. 

Aslaug had little doubt that he would succeed. He had a giant black dragon that didn’t simply breathe fire; it breathed death. “He will try,” she said instead. His eyes opened. He knew what she was thinking regardless. She stepped away from Solas before she lost the rest of what heart was left to her. “Get everyone ready, send a signal when you’re far enough away,” she addressed Cullen. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the pale boy touch Solas’s shoulder, mouthed something she couldn’t hear to him. The mage shook his head, his face a map that would lead to grief. He stepped away, head low and shoulders down. Cassandra had turned away. 

“Maybe you’ll be lucky...maybe you’ll be able to avoid the worst of it,” Cullen offered unconvincingly and drawing her attention from Solas. 

Her Holdmates would be needed by her Hold - and after everything, her missteps and failure to keep her Hold safe from the one that wounded the Lady, she could hardly ask one of them to go with her to die. Chancellor Roderick spoke softly behind her but she didn’t hear it. She lifted the bar to enter the outside again, shield secured to her arm. 

Another presence made itself known to her - Hrathgur. His face looked older than it had before. He tilted his head at her. “Come then, God-marked. Let us meet this false Tevinter god.” 

She wouldn’t ask why he was following her to what they both knew would be their deaths. He had his reasons and she had hers. They weren’t beholden to each other as they once had been.

The doors swung open and they stepped out into the burning Hold she had been too slow to accept as her home, and then the doors were barred again behind them. 

Hrathgur and she made their way through the bodies and debris as quickly as they could and avoided the enemies slowly but surely climbing over the walls. The single trebuchet still stood atop a hill, singed and guarded by red templars, but it was operational enough. Her old augur was moving slower than Aslaug expected and she turned to him before they made their presence known to the templars. “Are you wounded?” She looked down his form with furrowed brows. 

His winded response didn’t enlighten her. “No. Just old. I can still fight.” 

She turned to the group near the trebuchet. Why they still hadn’t destroyed it was beyond her, unless their plan was to simply bide their time and ambush whoever came to man the weapon. One of the creatures - for it was simply a lurching, convulsing thing of twisted flesh and crystal, baleful eyes glaring out from behind the slits of its helm - twitched violently and raised its hunched self nearly upright, long claws skittering at its sides. 

It was scenting the air. Aslaug bit off a curse - Hrathgur lifted his hammer and hit the earth once. A thick, spiked line of ice raised up in its path, following a single direction before impaling the monster. It screamed and writhed on a spike. 

An archer doled out those wicked arrows the red templars seemed to favor. Two other diseased faces turned to them and the fight began. 

For all that Hrathgur was slower than she, he still had power behind his swings and his magic. His frost magic was concentrated enough that it burned to be near. The squad of templars was small, and they had both learned enough from their previous fights with them to know their weaknesses well enough that it wasn’t an insurmountable task. 

Their enemies, only four of them in total, fell and didn’t rise. The trebuchet was off target; either knocked aside by their adversaries or it had never been properly aimed. The only problem was that its base was flat and it had no wheels.

Aslaug aimed the trebuchet with Hrathgur’s help. She asked if his god had any advice for them. Between huffing out breaths and panting as they bodily dragged the trebuchet through the dirt and snow, he said, “To not let this damn thing kill me.” 

Aslaug would have laughed if she didn’t feel nearly the same. 

So they waited. She didn’t see the dragon, or hear it, and hoped that it hadn’t found the Inquisition’s retreating forces. Even the area over the walls had gone silent. The templars that had scaled the walls were stalking the courtyards and cabins, she imagined. Probably pawing at the temple walls for a way in. She hoped Cullen and the others were evacuating or at least had left the temple.  

They waited for the signal in the eerie, skeletal carcass Havenhold had become. The lull in every battle always felt too long.

It was Hrathgur who spoke first. “Well. If there was any doubt where you belonged, there isn’t any now.” 

She hesitated, caught between her own shame and knowing that she had done the best she could with what she had been given at the time. “It wasn’t a lie. Not really.” 

“You were afraid for your Hold, and you didn’t trust the ones that came to march for the Lady. With good reason,” Hrathgur took a long swallow from the skin of water at his side before passing it to her. “Had you spoken it, and they - we - not seen it with our own eyes, we would have thought you as nothing more than a lowlander dog. Another fault of the Avvar.” He squinted at her. “We say we hold no grudges, but we do. We say we know the world, but what are our mountain ranges compared to all the world that we don’t know?” He looked down, face pale and eyes tired. “What do we know…” 

“Are you regretting coming out here with me?” She asked.

Hrathgur hummed. “Regret? No. ‘M too old for regretting to agree to die. Fear of death is for the young.” He met her eyes and she felt it - she had been removed from him for too long to understand it exactly, why he had seemed so particularly old but now she did. 

“Your god is gone.” Augurs at times would welcome in a god that reflected them well, or one that wished to be closer to the Hold. Hrathgur was - had been - one such augur. These partnerships were sacred, as they were done so out of companionship, respect and mutual agreement instead of necessity. It was partially why Hrathgur was so well liked and respected.

“I’ve been feeling...old. Bones creak, my body doesn’t want to work right, harder to see...the other day I couldn’t even lift my own hammer. My friend wished to stay and ease my way into the other world. But someone else worthy of her needed help more than an old man did.” 

And wasn’t it strange? So strange to see Felix healing as easily as if he were still not recovering from the taint, an illness that could fell the strongest of men? 

“You ushered her to him?” She asked tentatively. It wasn’t unheard of. Passing a spirit on that wished to help someone else - the ones who did it were old or no longer believed they were a healthy environment for their god. 

Hrathgur laughed, a rusty croak. “She ushered herself in. Felix, that first night, he was flagging. He was going to die. Those powders of his only prolonged the inevitable. Even after he finished his task, he was still too sick. She felt him in the land of dreams and wanted to help him, and we both knew that I was too old to linger with her much longer. I explained it to the boy that she wouldn’t be bound to him and when she wished to leave, or if he was corrupting her, then he was to guide her back to the land of dreams.” 

She focused on Hrathgur and his story and tried not to think about her Holdmates. She wouldn’t be able to stay still or calm if she did. “But...you’ve not parted from her for…” 

“Forty-six winters,” he said softly. “She helped me raise all the magic-blooded children, helped you all find gods. We’d been putting it off, but there’s no helping age. Still, in all that time, it is...lonely, to be so alone after so long.” 

“She’s can’t have bonded to Felix as she had you?” Gods who chose to become companions didn’t do that - to her knowledge at least. 

“No, no.” Hrathgur flapped a hand lazily. “She’ll only stay so long as he is recovering.” 

Something in the overgrown pathway before them and to the left rumbled. The bushes shook. 

The others had all looked human in some way. Familiar, no matter how monstrous they’d become, in their distant humanity. 

What stepped out from the bushes was not in the slightest. 

There was no face, no skin, no armor. Just tattered remnants of cloth and a giant body of red lyrium that moved on bizarrely stunted legs. It dragged a fist behind it in the shape of an unwieldy club. Its other arm was stunted as its legs were and squirmed queerly. Its stature though, was enormous. It was a behemoth. It groaned as though it were in pain and another templar armed to the teeth strode out in front of it. 

He spat to the side. “Bloody savage bitch - I’ll scrape you  _ raw _ .”  Aslaug raised a barrier and the dagger he’d flung at it deflected to the side but the beast moaned and when it finally moved, it moved quickly. With one swipe of its club, her barrier disintegrated and sent Hrathgur and she diving to one side. 

Hrathgur cursed and Aslaug uttered a lowland swear she’d picked up from Varric. “We’ve got to push this bastard from the machine - one strike from that arm and it’ll be splinters.” 

Aslaug cast an ice glyph beneath it. The slick ground proved to be its downfall. Its ungainly lurch didn’t allow for much balance and so it toppled to the side. 

She had taken her eyes off the other templar for too long and an arrow buried itself in her side. She shouted and Hrathgur cast another barrier, breaking off half the shaft but leaving the rest in her. “The Elder One wants what you stole from him. If I just deliver your hand to him, I’m sure the rest of you won’t matter.” He shot off arrows at them until his quiver was empty and then he just waited. The beast groaned as it crawled its way to its feet. The glyph had vanished when the templar did something. He sucked the magic out of it - but not from her, not from Hrathgur. It worked nonetheless.

He pointed at them. 

The club swung again and the barrier nearly shattered. 

Hrathgur strengthened his barrier while Aslaug worked to herd the monster further away from them. She cast spell after spell, raising ice and slicking the ground and forcing it back. 

The templar attacked - and Hrathgur’s barrier fell, and the templar was upon them with gear. His target was her, but she met his blade with her shield. 

Hrathgur had taken to keeping the monster back, using a barrier of ice to keep it from coming too close. Her wound twinged every time weight pressed down on her. The templar was vicious in his attacks. He kneed her in the stomach, used the pommel of his sword at the edges of her shield to throw her off. He growled at her like a rabid animal. The inside of his mouth was like a carnivorous fish; all jagged teeth meant to saw off meat from bone.

She was confident that she could kill him. Or at least just keep him focused on her until the signal went up. 

There was a loud, crunching noise. Like stone being sundered. 

The ice barriers Hrathgur had erected had been breached by that giant. The ice crumbled and a wine colored pulse sent her old augur staggering back. She remained locked with her opponent but watched in growing dread as the behemoth stalked toward her. 

Hrathgur stood alone against it as it had begun a slow charge in her direction, and Aslaug, still straining against the might of another red templar, watched when her old augur pivoted too slowly to catch the side swing of its crystal club. She heard bones snap, saw his body fly through the air as if he’d grown wings, and he knocked a pile of firewood down when he finally landed. His face was turned to her. Blood ran from his ears and nose. 

She let out a loud wail like a wounded animal and the templar pressed the advantage to maneuver her back into the behemoth’s down swing. By sheer luck, she swept her leg back and a sheet of ice appeared beneath the behemoth. The slick ground forced it off its feet again. She felt frost chill her tongue, the back of her teeth, curl out of her nostrils and the tears at the corner of her eyes froze. The sudden chill startled the templar and she used the advantage to shove him back. 

Aslaug abandoned her glaive and held her stone axe, hacking at his neck viciously before he could recover, gasping on her breath and tasted winter and blood in the back of her throat. The templar fell - the behemoth swung again, out of anger and desperation and caught the edge of her shield, cracking it down the middle. It rattled through her.

She slid her arm from the strap, let it fall in two at her feet, and fade stepped through the monster that her ice sheet had held at bay. It let out a guttural noise of surprise when its legs froze from the force of the spell and Aslaug attacked it, hacking at the frozen crystal with her stone axe. Its club flailed, nearly striking her but she stayed with her knees bent between its legs. It left leg finally broke off and it collapsed as if it were just a tree she had cut down. 

When it fell, it didn’t rise again. It still breathed, but seemed content to lie there until it died. Its breath steamed the air and Aslaug dragged Hrathgur’s warhammer, setting it on the monster’s back and using frost magic to freeze it, and push through the frozen, weakened crystal. It didn’t die as a person would from the wound. Its body simply cracked and broke apart. 

Aslaug stood, ears ringing, and made her stumbling way to where Hrathgur lay motionless. She sank to her knees and inhaled sharply as she rolled him to his back. She felt the shards of broken bones in his body grind together. His mouth popped open, the last twitches of his muscles, and blood foamed out. His pale eyes were open to the sky, yet they took in nothing at all. His flesh was still warm under her hands. 

She bent her head, bit her tongue, and inhaled the sharp scent of the finished battle. She closed his eyes quietly and pressed her forehead to his in farewell.  _ Vi föds, vi kämpar, och vi dör som allting dö. Resten, Avvar, med din fars far och din mors mor _ .  _ Har inga dödliga funderingar _ . There was no time for a sky burial; there would  _ be  _ no sky burial for Hrathgur. But he would be returned to the Mountain Father, and perhaps he would rise again in the skin of a new person and be allowed a chance at life again. She prayed so. She worked quickly to cross Hrathgur’s arms and drew the triangles of the fallen on his forehead using his blood like paint. 

She gave Hrathgur - augur to Lurkerhold, guide to her and countless other Avvar youths who hadn’t yet found their teacher-gods, who spoke of her magicless mother and of her relationship with the god of the lost with something like awe - one last lingering glance.  _ Må våra vägar möts i nästa liv _ . 

She covered his body in snow, sent a prayer to Korth when the dragon saw fit to fly at her. She barely had time to take up her glaive and stand in front of the trebuchet, already cranked back to its capacity. 

The dragon landed and the ground beneath her shook so hard her teeth clicked. She had no shield, her leathers were torn and her furs had been ripped from her body during the battle. Her glaive’s tip had been broken at some point, but it would serve. 

There was a rasp of scales and then she saw him - the one they called the Elder One. He was tall, skeletal, and though his face betrayed his humanity, he was as twisted as his soldiers. Leather armor, feather pauldrons, chunks of metal were sunken into his skin and red lyrium grew from him as it did from anything else it seemed to touch. His arms were unnaturally long and ended in blackened talons. He moved away from the dragon and toward her, sending up a powerful gust with the barest movement of his hands. She fought against it to keep her footing. Sharpened debris flung in the air, slicing through her ear and she felt the slick slide of blood down her neck. 

His eyes were drawn to her god-mark and he sneered. “This is what my plans have amounted to: a mistake. A mistake carried by a savage who isn’t aware of what she’s done.” 

“You wounded the Lady of the Skies,” Aslaug spat, ire and loss battling beneath her skin, “And drove the gods to madness.” He was guilty of other crimes; for unleashing monsters on the world, for using this red lyrium as a weapon, for being a madman, but she couldn’t articulate his crimes well enough in her state. 

“Do not speak of things you don’t understand, savage. You toy with things beyond your ken - do not assume you comprehend what it is you interrupted.” He stalked forward and Aslaug backed away but kept her glaive trained on him. “What you interrupted, what you  _ ruined  _ with your foolish thoughtlessness was a plan in motion for an age.” With a sudden movement, he gripped her wrist and lifted her into the air like a toy. She struck him with her glaive. It bobbed between his ribs and she tried to push it deeper but he snarled and flung her from him. She hit the trebuchet hard, bouncing once before rolling to a stop. “To revive weakened, tarnished Tevinter from its ashes and rebuild its empire again to span the world - I had such a tool to recreate the world as thus and instead there it lies, useless, in your palm.” He jerked her glaive from him and cast it away. Black blood flowed sluggishly from the wound before it closed completely, leaving behind only smears of what looked like ink. 

Aslaug clumsily shook her head, forced herself to her knees and hands. He presented a sphere and curled one hand in her direction. Her god-mark reacted violently, gnawing at her winter storm, her within-self, and tore with fangs and claws, ripping at the roots of her being. She screamed and tumbled to the ground, cradling her marked hand, face pressed to the snow. The pain was equal to the first days of holding it in her palm.

He lowered the sphere and the god-mark settled, still hissing angrily. “Useless,” he murmured to himself, “Ruined and useless, as if Tevinter’s pride should allow yet another savage to rise against its greatness so easily.” 

She gasped, “What are you?” 

“The one who will correct this blighted world. It turns endlessly on its own despair and inability to lead itself without the imaginings of a Maker that does not exist; so _ I  _ will guide its future. For I have journeyed to the Black City, and found the throne of the Maker, and it was  _ empty _ . There is no Maker, no gods. I had journeyed there in search of Dumat to serve him in person but found nothing and no one. For a thousand years I was confused but now - now I understand. This world has no gods to lead it, to guide it, and if they existed ever before, they no longer do. This is why the world is dying; it needs a god. I will meet that need.” He narrowed his eyes at Aslaug’s form, stepping closer. “And you should be grateful.” 

She spat at his bare, clawed feet. Bright red saliva tainted the snow. “You can’t take the mark - what now? Kill me?” She used the trebuchet to lift herself to her feet, grabbing a forgotten longsword near her and holding it aloft. The dragon screeched, flaring its wings. 

His hand glowed red like the lyrium growing out of him. “Foul barbarian. I remember your kind and it would seem nothing has changed.” The Elder One curled his lip up. 

“What do you call yourself - a Tevinter god of glory or revenge?” Three arrows aflame lit the darkness from afar. Aslaug kept her attention on him, made sure he never looked away from her. “What kind of king-god are you, if no one knows your name?” 

He snarled, “Corypheus is the name your Inquisition will  _ bow  _ to, savage. Now, be silent.” 

He raised his hand to use whatever magic he had conjured in his hand against her but Aslaug grinned with her teeth and she slammed the pommel of the sword against the trebuchet’s lever. With a massive creak, it spun and its burden of boulders sailed in the air, hitting the mountainside. 

A rumble foretold a blessing from Korth Mountain-Father.  The mountain crumbled, sweeping the woods and lake beneath its assault. 

The Elder One backed away from her and the dragon covered him with its wings, carrying him between its talons when it launched itself from the ground. 

Aslaug felt the mountain ripple beneath her, stone and ice and snow cracking and falling away, the avalanche swallowed the Hold down greedily. She leapt unseeingly into a yawning pit beside the trebuchet and tumbled to the bottom. 

…

She was walking somewhere. She didn’t know where. There was snow below and above her. But there was nothing but a whiteness that lasted for an eternity. She could walk for the rest of her life and never see anything else. She felt as if someone had stuffed her head with grass and her body full of cloth. Her wound still bled. She didn’t have enough left in her to seal it. At some point during her fall into the pit and making her way out of the tunnel, the rest of the shaft had come loose. The hole was bigger. The cold kept it from spilling too much, but she was bleeding slowly. 

She followed the signs. A broken wheel. The remains of a cooking fire. An abandoned satchel with nothing in it but crumbs. 

How long had she been walking? She didn’t know this part of the Frostbacks. 

There were footprints in the snow, sometimes. 

Other times she would blink and an Avvar-dressed woman with a great mane of black hair in bear fur would be walking in front of her, never turning around or saying a word. 

The pain from her wound lessened. She shivered when she began to feel the chill in the air. She hummed and chanted for a god to help her though her voice cracked. She couldn’t sing. She was going to die - die even though she survived Corypheus. The one who wounded the Lady. Who drove the gods to madness. Who had been the god to mark her. She didn’t want to die yet. Not if there was more to be done, and not if she was done in by an arrow wound and left to freeze in the mountains she thought she knew like the back of her hand. 

She sank against a tree trunk when the wind blew harder and her legs gave out. She crumpled to her bottom and stayed there. Time between blinks seemed like nothing, until the pale boy she had barely remembered seeing back in Havenhold appeared in front of her. He stared at her with wide blue eyes beneath his large brimmed brown hat. “If you stay here, you’ll die. They don’t want you to be dead. And neither do you.” He gripped her arms and helped her find her feet though it was difficult for her to coordinate. He pressed something to her mouth - it was overly sweet and she made a face, tried to turn from it, but he persisted and it went down. Lyrium. “This too,” he murmured before tilting another bottle to her lips. It tasted like elfroot and flowers. Her wound throbbed hotly, but she wasn’t shivering anymore. She felt more awake. 

“We have to go.” The boy held her hand and she followed him, too stunned and tired to do much else. “They set up camp. They think you’re dead...but they’re hoping you’re not. Solas is very, very sorry.” 

“What…” she could barely keep up. Eventually she saw the warm glow of fires up ahead in a clearing with tall pillars of stone that once may have housed another place of residence. “How did you find me?” She let him tug her along. His grip was firm, but gentle, and his voice was soft that way a lamb’s wool was. She was so tired, but sleep meant death right now. 

“I heard you,” he said simply. 

It was Pyp - she was gladdened to see he had survived - who saw them first. “The Herald! She’s here!” 

Cassandra gave a shout, Cullen at her heels with Leliana striding to them - her - quickly. The boy was gone. She sunk to her knees in exhaustion when her Holdmates came to her. She had found her home again. The rest could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (it's bits of Old Norse words, Avvar and google translate (from Norwegian, Scandinavian since DA likes to use bits of words/grammar laws from all the languages at once) )
> 
> Vi föds, vi kämpar, och vi dör som allting dö. Resten, Avvar, med din fars far och din mors mor. Har inga dödliga funderingar. We are born, we struggle, and we die as all things die. Rest, Avvar, with your father's father and your mother's mother. Have no mortal wonderings.
> 
> Må våra vägar möts i nästa liv. May our paths meet in the next life.
> 
> [Inspired by quotes from the Havamal, viking book of wisdom]
> 
>  
> 
> And yes. Healer Felix because DA:I didn’t technically give us a healer and it just seemed to match his personality (from my perspective)
> 
>  
> 
> Codex entry “Spirits (gods) as companions” (non-canon, canon ref.)
> 
> While not nearly as commonplace as spirits possessing young mages to further their knowledge in magic and to guide them properly (as well as teach them about the Fade and “corrupt gods” or demons), taking a spirit as a companion is not unheard of in the Avvar. Citing at least two known mages within Ferelden - Wynne, a former Enchanter of the Kinloch Circle of Magi, and Anders, previously a Grey Warden, now fugitive. The spirits for these mages were known as “compassion” and “justice” respectively and were done so out of the want to help the other, and not done as a gain for power (which is likely a key element in all known “spirit companioning”). The relationship is somewhat vague - they are not necessarily bound to the other, as in this instance of companioning, the spirit and person both have a choice - but it seems to be that over time, the spirit and vessel think of themselves not as one (though with the case of Anders, this seems to have changed) but as two people inhabiting one body. Among the Avvar, this is bond seen as sacred since it doesn’t stem from necessity and so far, only augurs have been noted to have this although even among augurs within known Holds, this is still an uncommon thing. 
> 
> “Spirit companioning”, as one scholar from Kirkwall coined it, seems to take place when a mage that a spirit favors or has been watching is wounded (as with the case of Wynne, Blight veteran) or when the spirit is in need of aid (as with Anders) or simply because the spirit and mage are connected so powerfully that ushering one in, or a spirit possessing the mage is not technically a possession as the Chantry describes it. As to why this is acceptable to the Avvar when a young mage must expel a spirit during the end of their pubescent journey is now, the answers received were very vague.
> 
> There are old elvhen texts that seem to go greatly into detail about this companioning that occurs but as of yet, there is no lexicon developed enough to translate the texts completely.


	25. ghilani (elvish)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ghilani - (to) guide

 

The mark was gone. She was lost. Buried under the mountain she had brought down as a bargain to buy the Inquisition time. 

Cassandra’s faith kept her steadfast in her belief that the Herald would somehow return to them, but no one else believed so. To the humans, the Andrastians, the Herald; their prophet Andraste had sent to them was gone and it eerily echoed the sacrifice of Andraste to Tevinter. 

Solas watched the skies with a learned stillness.

He was - distraught. The mark alone was reason enough to genuinely mourn this cycle that would continue to destroy the world until there were no more people or lands to raze. It alone could close the rest of the rifts, that with time, would grow larger. Demons and spirits poured into this mortal, physical trap and were unable to return so easily. The seams were tearing and ripping. Solas could feel it as surely as one could feel a nail snag on a tunic. Those who were left, of  _ his  _ people, could surely feel this seismic charge in the world that threatened to crumble to dust, leaving only the ashes behind. They had felt it before; exactly like this. 

They would know who to blame. Solas hoped they were locked in their dreams, sleeping the destruction away. They didn’t deserve to have this happen twice over. 

The people of this world who he had condemned would burn and die, just as his people from long ago had burned and died. He had condemned a world twice for the sake of righting a wrong, and twice he had failed. His intention for this world was nothing like what Corypheus wanted; not this mass of chaotic celebration of pain and death and suffering. If he had died, and the orb had unlocked for him, Solas would have used this world to revive his.

No death. No pain. 

The existence of this world would have ceased to be, and when his world was righted, he would try again and not make the same mistake twice. There needn’t have been wars and famine and destruction. 

Now there would be, and it would be as ugly as the first time it had happened. 

And...there was the matter of the woman. She wasn’t so hollow as the creatures that walked across the bared bones of his people. In the broader scope of everything, she still was inconsequential. She wasn’t one of the People; she walked the physical plains of this world, fumbling at concepts far beyond the Avvar - something of nostalgia, and almost something to be admired in full, but it was just that: insufficient. 

Still. She had at least proven her worth as something beyond a shadow, a reflection on a broken mirror, even if her customs brought to mind huddled barbarians in a cave, crouching over a meager fire while they whispered half forgotten dreams and misunderstood myths murmured to them from across the divide of the Fade. 

However she hadn’t been a whole person, she  _ had  _ been something of a comfort, of a friend. There had been the undeniable path she’d laid before him; steps to be taken down a courtship which in his baffled state of mind he had taken as a compliment. He hadn’t been pursued with such forthright intensity, a plain truth that someone had simply enjoyed him far beyond any measure of power or simple physical attraction, before - a state he would’ve thought would have been bland to witness, to experience. It was not. It had been heady. Dark, dark eyes boring into his with everything she wanted, feared, and hoped for laid out before him as easily as a child’s book. 

Her worry had been guided by the thought that she had been pursuing him while he remained unwilling, pressing him when she believed he might have considered a power imbalance and been reluctant to say no. He’d responded, foolishly, brashly, that that had never been the issue. Then he’d implied heavily he wouldn’t mind being courted so long as she gave him time. Another mistake. He should have told her she had been pursuing him without his consent, that he’d been backed into a corner - she would have skirted around him, but he needed her ear. Needed to attend her councils, needed the letters and missives and oh - what  _ grand  _ scheme it was; to take her proffered respect and affection, and return it with a sleight of hand. That wasn’t to say it wasn’t necessarily unwanted, or that it wasn’t returned in some measure; but it couldn’t run its course. Not with everything in the balance.

Her rare, wide smiles and bold laughter, her curiosity when exploring the world beyond her home, or the familiar, fond tones as she spoke about magic, the Fade, and the natural world would be missed. The unequivocal character she displayed shamelessly that at times grated against him; liars accused others of lying often and such candor rested like a too large swallow of water at the back of his throat. The bump of her shoulder to his. The surprising tenderness she had reached out with to touch her forehead to his, a gentle tap that felt as intimate as a kiss. 

She had not been wholly a person in the way People were, but he would be remiss if he didn’t acknowledge the tightness across his chest, or the heavier touches of grief that wound around him over the awareness of her demise. She had not deserved to die due to that monster. 

It didn’t matter now, he supposed. 

Nothing did. 

The world would burn and tremble beneath the crush of agony Corypheus would undoubtedly bring. 

Solas had to focus on surviving it if there was any hope for salvaging a plan to revive his People and his world. The Inquisition’s spirits were brought low; their holy savior had fallen, Haven had fallen. Now would be the easiest time to slip away. Even the Spymaster was preoccupied. He had seen her praying quietly before a single candle alongside Mother Giselle and Chancellor Roderick. Cole, the spirit Cassandra had oddly befriended in her time at Therinfal, was likely seeing to the wounded and dying. Otherwise the kind spirit would have undoubtedly spoken to him by now. 

He had finished preparing a knapsack with essentials when he heard the urgency in Cassandra’s yell across the clearing. He turned, hood still drawn over his head, to see the Seeker and the Commander maneuvering a body between them to the healing tent. 

Hair spilled over the Commander’s arm. 

He felt the distant pulse of his mark, relaxed and quiet. It beat slowly in time with her heart. 

He was moving before the thought fully formed, before Cassandra had time to finish her shout for his name. 

…

He’d healed what he had been able to. It was astounding she had made it as far as she had, but he suspected that she had received help from Cole, considering the unlikelihood of her survival in such dire circumstances coupled with the spirit’s absence.

Bruises and scrapes remained, but the wound to her abdomen was closed properly, frostbite had been taken from her fingers, and her broken ribs had been painstakingly patched together. Her leathers had been unsalvageable, her furs torn and bloodied. One of the older women from a different Avvar Hold had dressed her in a pair of soft doeskin breeches and chest wrappings made from what felt like snoufleur hide. She had brusquely undressed Aslaug in full view of everyone; Commander Cullen had shouted a brief protest and covered his eyes before he’d strode away and Solas had turned his back to the women. 

It had been trying, however, to see the pile of bloodied armor and clothing the Avvar woman had collected from Aslaug’s body after she’d washed and redressed her. 

She rested now on the cot beneath bear furs with a small fire in front of the tent. Mother Giselle had come to sit with her some time ago and had placed a small cushion scented with lavender oil beneath her head. Solas knelt beside her, features blank, even as relief poured a slow icy slush down his back. 

Relief for many things; things he didn’t trust even himself to list within the safe confines of his mind. 

But she was alive, she would live. The mark was well. Things were not so hopeless. He tipped a thin broth into her mouth carefully. Mother Giselle watched silently. “It is good to see that the Herald has such a friend in you, considering how...separate she is from us.” The Mother commented lightly even as her eyes followed his actions tellingly. 

Solas said nothing to that. Even to him, anything he could say sounded incriminating in some fashion. “If you could, please watch over her and come to me in she worsens. I find myself tired,” he said swiftly. He strode to one of the tents near the edges of a drop, and heard the advisors arguing furiously over their next move. 

“...must decide what to do next. We cannot sit here in the event that  _ monster  _ finds us!” The Seeker barked. 

“And who put you in charge? We need a consensus or we have nothing!” Cullen snapped at Cassandra, pacing furiously as he did so. 

“Please, we must use reason. Without the infrastructure of the Inquisition, we’re hobbled,” Josephine implored over the raised voices of the Seeker and the Commander. 

“That can’t come from nowhere!” Cullen gestured with his arms angrily. 

“She didn’t say it could,” Leliana inserted smoothly, voice tinged in exhaustion and frustration. 

“Enough! This is getting us nowhere,” Cassandra interrupted before Cullen could bark out anything else. 

“Well we’re agreed on that much,” he muttered. 

“Please, Commander,” the ambassador soothed, her hand touched delicately upon the Commander’s arm. He sighed gustily and the tension in his shoulders dropped. His head bowed as he slowly turned away. 

“Forgive me, Lady Montilyet,” he excused himself from the women. 

Movement from the corner of his vision revealed itself to be Aslaug waking and pulling her blanket from her shoulders. 

She looked shaky, pale, and exhausted but she leaned against the post and seemed to be speaking in an aside to the Mother further in the confines of the tent. Her gaze alighted over the people of Haven, the soldiers and the civilians, her advisors, those within the Inner Circle. 

There was twist in the Veil and a voice spoke from behind him. “ ‘I don’t want to die, but I am Loyal, and was chosen for it. I am not afraid.’ She thought she was going to die when she went out to meet him, but she survived. She was so tired, walking, wondering, wandering, she thought she followed her but she wasn’t really there. She just wanted to believe she was. I heard her though. Chanting in words older than the home she came from. Her people learned how to do it from the ones who gave them the mountains.” 

Solas closed his eyes momentarily during Cole’s monologue. He was trying to help, but it wasn’t necessary. “Thank you, Cole,” he said. 

The spirit’s wide eyes beheld him. “Oh. That wasn’t right. Let me try again.”

“No - you don’t need to,” Solas hurried to interrupt him. 

“There’s a hurt, because she isn’t real, but she could be. You are afraid she might be someday. You can feel her, leaning in, leaning with, skin to skin, eyelashes touch and you wonder what her mouth would feel like, but she stays there. She speaks and you hear her too, singing, chanting in a language you don’t understand, people you don’t understand, because they aren’t People. Shadows reflecting faces and places that don’t belong to them. The world is broken, sifting through rubble and it’s my fault, all my fault, that they can’t be as they are meant to be.” 

Solas met Cole’s eyes again, “Because she cannot be. None of them can be,” his voice remained soft, tracing edges of reluctant grief. The truth of the matter, was that even if he didn’t wish for their suffering, they were not real, not as his People had been. Even the elves of this age were not real; they shared some physical characteristics unique to the Elvhen but such similarities were barely even skin deep. 

He moved away from Cole, softly padding through the snow and lingering in the shadows as he made his way to Aslaug. 

“...not by a god. That madman, darkspawn, whatever he is, seeks godhood and he may yet earn it. Gods come from wishes and not all of them come into it kindly. The mark isn’t touched by your Maker or any of the real gods. It’s a mistake; a weapon meant to sunder this world and the land of dreams,” she snarled furiously. She shook her head. “Forgive me, priestess. It isn’t you - or anything you’ve said. The losses we suffered, that Havenhold suffered…” she trailed off and blinked twice, hard. Her eyes shone wetly. 

Solas circled behind the tent, still listening, and he waited on the other side of it. 

“The losses that Corypheus caused. Not you. We do not blame you for this. We know the enemy we face, although I cannot say what he will do next. They argue because you have given them that luxury,” Mother Giselle responded calmly. “We all have the luxury of being alive. It is just difficult to see and believe. We saw our savior fall, and then return to us.” 

“I didn’t die.” 

“No. But you survived when many would not, whether or not you consider yourself touched by the Maker or your gods now, we can only believe what we see before us.” Mother Giselle stepped out and began to sing and slowly other joined in. Voices raised above the echoes of the wind, humans, elves, dwarves joined in the Andrastian hymn. Aslaug jerked back in confusion when they knelt before her, still singing. 

Solas watched the proceedings keenly, eyes traversing the worn faces of the faithful who had cowered in the Chantry as the world shook, and the enemy battered at the gates. The desolate fear and despair that had overtaken their prayers and swallowed their hope whole was gone. Whether or not they considered her to be touched by the Maker no longer mattered, that she was an Avvar no longer mattered. She had pressed through the trials of Corypheus, the dragon, her wounds, and the everlasting snow of the Frostbacks and found them against all the odds. She had proven herself as more than the mark bearer. 

The emergence of faith without the necessity of the Chantry. She would surely have it in time, as many believed Andraste delivered her from the Fade - but now it was not needed. They would follow her wherever she chose to lead her newly steadfast flock now that the evidence of her ability to overcome trials had been proven. How else would she have survived all her trials if she was not indeed favored by the Maker? 

_ The night is long  _

_ And the path is dark _

_ Look to the sky _

_ For one day soon _

_ The dawn will come _

The hymn ended, though people still knelt, heads bowed. “An army needs more than an enemy, it needs a cause.” Mother Giselle left with that piece of advice. 

The woman still stared out at the people from Haven. Confused, afraid of the implications that had been relayed to her. Still sluggish from the broth and her arduous journey to find them, she blinked as if in a daze, recoiling at the looks of the faithful almost fearfully. That she shied from their growing reverence with such genuine distress was a comfort. 

The Avvar ringing the faithful Andrastians looked on in silence. They too, had their gazes locked on Aslaug. Their once distrustful, wary, nearing disgusted features had smoothed over worryingly quickly into something approaching an epiphany. What did her people see when they looked at her now? What conclusions had they drawn since the fall of Haven and her apparent resurrection? 

He could not say. 

He advanced from the shadows upon her with a pang of guilt that he had to do this now, but before she could be drawn into the politics and the various other machinations within the Inquisition and all its ties, he had to speak to her alone. It would be difficult to command her attention in solitary once the advisors deemed her well enough to continue. 

She shivered in the cold. Something she had never done before - the pang unfurled in his chest, an unwanted, growing thing like a host of ragweeds in a garden - she was still unwell. Not so vivacious with her color drained from her and her hair lank around her shoulders, as she dropped for the blanket she had discarded and bundled herself up again. Her dark eyes still roamed across the people although they no longer knelt before her.

He would have liked to have been able to grant her a moment’s respite. She seemed to strain against the wind and he was uncomfortably made aware again of the fragile existence she hid behind her magic and force of self. The fine tremble that he could easily see even without the surrounding torches was a testament to her weariness, and it was unkind to pull her from the warmth of the tent and further into the cold, to inform her of the horrible half-truth of the orb’s origin and know she may lose rest over it. 

However, it had been so long since he had been able to be truly kind. 

He appeared at her side and she inhaled sharply when she noticed him. Her muscles released unsaid tension and the naked affection and relief that reflected back at him gave him pause. She gave a small smile. “Solas.” 

There was a tenderness in her voice that should not have been there, would not have been there if he had only halted its progression, held the newness, differentness of her at bay - but he had failed in a greater measure than he would have thought. The only boon granted from his continued missteps was that their talk had remained more or less unresolved, although it had proved useful in settling her nerves. 

“A word?” he asked, gesturing out near the snowy drop. He waited for her to blink blearily, surprised by his curt tone, but she followed him. He measured his strides to take the lead, but kept his pace slower.

Near the edge of a drop, a flameless lantern stood and he moved to it, hand raising briefly to light it with veilfire. It lit the snow in soft green hues. 

Aslaug came to stand next to him, smile gone, and with a look of focus locked on to him. Her focus was - could be - disconcerting. He tread carefully. 

“A wise woman, worth heeding. Her kind understand the moments that unify a cause or fracture it. The orb Corypheus used, the power he used against you, it is elven. Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach; unlocking it must have destroyed the Conclave. I do not yet know how Corypheus survived, or how people will react when they learn of the orb’s origin.” He waited for a question, an exclamation, a curse, something that would give him more insight to her blank expression, but he remained her single focal point. She had called it a god-mark, would she not take offense to the knowledge that this instead came from people who walked this world, these lands, long before her ancestors migrated from the far northern reaches of the world? That this, like most things humans spoke of and practiced, came from the incomplete understanding of a world beyond what they imagined? 

She was silent, but flexed her hand thoughtfully. “We heard about the Exalted Marches on the Dales before. Exiling your people from their lands in the name of their silent Maker. Surface dwarven traders come through, talk about human cities and how they’re appreciated there, how it’s so much better than Orzammar. But they talk about the elves that live there, fearful and thought of as rats at the grain stores. The Dalish...Lurkerhold didn’t interact much with them, but there are some Holds that do. Nomads, but not by their choice.” She nodded to herself as she came to a decision. “Many will not be understanding, much less gentle.” 

“No. They will not,” he murmured. 

“Solas,” she said, “How do you know it’s elven? Did a god whisper thousand-year old secrets to you?” 

His lip twitched in an aborted self-deprecating smile. “It is far older than a thousand year old secret.” He regarded the scenery of white before them, as he continued. “They were foci, used to channel magic. I have seen such things in the Fade, memory of older things. Corypheus may think it Tevinter, but his empire’s magic was built on the bones of my people. Knowing or not, he risks our alliance. I cannot allow it.” 

She hummed and closed her eyes. Her mouth formed a slight frown as she tilted her head back and exposed the long column of her throat. The bear fur covered the dip of her clavicle. “If he thinks it is from Tevinter, would there be any other Tevinters who might know more about it?” 

Ah. She thought to possibly ask one of the Tevinter mages she had allowed into the Inquisition’s ranks. The thought that she thought look to another for arcane council beyond his own, particularly in this matter, was distasteful, a bitter brew that lingered. “I find it doubtful, I have read of nothing in current literature, even from Tevinter, that has ever mentioned such artifacts.” 

Her head tipped down, eyes still shut, and for a brief moment, Solas worried that she was still too weak or that she may fall unconscious. Then her eyes opened to slits, nearly entirely concealed by her lashes. “It’s alright,” she said softly, “We won’t let them attack the elves for something that wasn’t their fault. If they want their justice, they’ll have to do it right.” That said, she moved the blanket further up and covered her mouth and nose so that only her eyes peered out. 

Sleepiness made her softer, as it did with all things, but to see it on her was an intimacy he hadn’t expected would exist. He felt a fondness creep upon him as surely as summer vines climbing trellises, coiling through patiently and persistently - superficially innocuous but dangerous enough to conceal a path, a gate, a lock. 

“Corypheus likely has withdrawn for the time being. He aspires to godhood and thinks that he has vanquished you, because to him, you are nothing and certainly no true threat to his plans. It would be wise for you to sleep for the time being while we have the luxury of it. We will speak again when you are rested,” he soothed. He could encourage her to stay awake and he knew she would. But he recognized bone-deep weariness when he saw it, when only sheer will kept a body moving when all other options had been drained dry. 

She raised her brows again. Despite the fur covering her mouth, he could still hear her easily. “There’s more?” 

“There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build, grow.” He kept his arms behind him. He could envision it now, nestled in the high reaches of the Frostbacks; ill-kept but still strong, lasting through ages without falter. “But there will be time for that after, for now, sleep.”

Aslaug grunted in agreement and already began shuffling off to the campsite. He led her back to the tent, where she climbed into the cot, buried herself under more furs and curled up, nearly instantly asleep. 

A prickle of awareness made him turn slightly. The advisors all watched her intently. 

They were changed, she was changed - once again the world had tilted, and he felt himself slip on the descent as it tried to right itself, and found that he had regained his footing, but he was angled elsewhere along with everyone else. 

While the world changed around her, Aslaug slept undisturbed. 

As he wandered the Fade, pausing over the great monoliths of his memory, the greatness of his People turned to ash and dust settling over an unused room of a forgotten tower, he felt tremors within the air of the Fade. Like a stone being cast into a still pond, the rustle of a bush after a bird took flight in an otherwise still forest, Solas halted and turned to the place where it was coming from. The campsite - and so he was drawn away, the Veil thinning, the result felt like a single swatch of silk held to an open mouth - 

He heard drums, beating in rhythm with a heartbeat, crescendoing and chants in a tongue older than the people who spoke it, spirits rising to the call. They were less wary this far into the mountains, but he felt the convergence of spirits hone in on the chant. The chants, echoing even in this place, died down - 

The spirits reenacted the Avvar of old in turn. 

The chants silenced and a soft lullaby in Alamarri soothed the places where the Veil had been stretched. The spirits still wandered closely, following the movements of the mortals who had drawn them out. 

A noise at his side caused his eyes to slide open. Solas looked up at Cassandra, who regarded him somewhat grimly. “The Herald is awake, but she asked me to wake you. You said you needed to speak with her about something.” He had unfolded his limbs, shaking himself into waking when the Seeker spoke again, “Solas. Do you believe in the Maker?” 

The Seeker was forthright to a fault, an aspect she shared with the Herald and perhaps why they hadn’t gotten along in the beginning. “I cannot say I do or do not, Seeker,” he opted for an ambiguous answer because it was such an unknown, and exhaustive, argument. “May I ask why?”

Cassandra hummed noncommittally. “It is just...we watched her stand before this Elder One, watched her bring down a mountain and we assumed...we assumed she had fallen, but then she returned to us despite all of it. If it was not the Maker who delivered her back to us, then how was it possible? I cannot claim to know His plans, but I know what I witnessed, what we all witnessed. Who else but the Maker could have accomplished this?” 

“I cannot speak for the Maker, Seeker, but I do know that the greatest of triumphs and tragedies can also often be traced back to people. Whether or not this too is the work of the Maker, it is difficult to determine. It would, however, be neglectful to dismiss the spirit of a person.” 

He watched understanding cross Cassandra’s eyes although she looked neither disappointed nor in total agreement. “I suppose, Solas, that that much is true. Come, enough, you must speak with the Herald so she may meet with us later. We have to figure out what we’ll do now that Corypheus thinks us crippled from grief.” 

The advisors were already gathered together in a tent. The sun was barely peering over the peaks. 

Aslaug stood dressed in a fur wrap with her gifted leathers. Her hair was brushed and styled in a small braid that left most of her hair curling around her face and shoulders. “This place you mentioned,” she began, “Where is it? Where do we go?” 

“You must be the one to guide them. Solidify their faith in you by showing them to a place where they may be safe and the Inquisition can mature into a force that can face Corypheus.” He gestured to mountains that rose before them. “Scout to the north. Skyhold awaits.” 

She followed his line of vision. The high peaks of the Frostbacks looked as though they could touch the sky, climbing into the clouds and mist of the world above, where they rested even above the sun. Her expression became focused; setting an Avvar to find a fortress named Skyhold that lay in the Frostbacks was not a difficult choice for her, even if she had not enjoyed his company. The cry of a hawk overhead broke the silence but Aslaug still stared out ahead, daydreaming or lost in thought. 

“A home,” she whispered as though the word was caught in her throat. “Show me where to go, Solas. I do not know the way.” 

He would. The trustworthy elven apostate who had saved the Herald’s life from the strange magic on her mark, the one who remained her advisor and loyal friend as he helped her acclimate to the workings of the rest of the world, a far cry from the people she came from. If only the truth were so simple. 

Few things were. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all you who reviewed and left kudos or bookmarked this for later reading, you're all wonderful!


	26. heimstǫð

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heimstǫð - homestead

A crow eyed her from its perch and cawed out rudely before flapping away. 

“It’s...something of a ruin, Herald,” Josephine said delicately. Her advisors stepped around the crumbled stones that had fallen from the enormous pillars, torn shreds of banners and toppled, twisted heraldries told no tales of the place Solas said had once been kept in the sky. Josephine’s hand rested lightly on Cullen’s arm as he guided her around the debris and helped her balance. 

Aslaug hummed, turning to look around her as she continued walking forward. 

A slightly elevated platform at the end of the enormous hall overlooked everything. A place for a thane.

“It is not terrible, Josie. Better than what we had. And with some resources, we could rebuild it. Solas claimed it had changed hands many times over the ages and no one knows who originally built it, but clearly it was built to withstand. We can use this when facing Corypheus,” Leliana commented. 

“There are standards that could guide the dragon in - if it were a surprise anymore. But it isn’t and that is to our advantage. The battlements need some repair, but even Corypheus will have difficulty cutting us down as he did in Haven,” Cullen added. 

Josephine sighed. “Yes. This is true. I will send word to any nobles allied with the Inquisition and continue searching for more allies. We will most certainly need more materials, supplies, and gold now - if we are to make Skyhold whole for the Inquisition’s uses. What do you say, Aslaug?” 

Aslaug turned, eyebrows high. “I say you do what you must; you know it better than I do. We’ll need to treat this Hold well so it may do the same for us.” She considered it a moment longer before continuing, “We need to make this better than Havenhold. In whatever capacity we can; showing weakness a second time will not rest easy with our people.”

Josephine nodded and from the folds of her pockets beneath endless ruffles, dug out a quill and tended to her parchment board quickly. “We’ll need to set up a trade route to import food, for our people as well as all the mounts...we’ll need cotton and silk, stones, masons, more blacksmiths - goodness knows Harritt won’t be able to fill orders alone…”

Leliana chuckled, “Come Josie. Let’s take inventory - you as well, Commander. When we have tallied our final numbers, Herald, we’ll report back to you.” The advisors turned away, speaking in low tones to each other. 

Aslaug dipped down and spread her hand against the stone. It was old. Ancient as perhaps the mountains themselves; this place had once belonged to a people greater than the Avvar forces that had once occupied Ferelden. She wondered where they were now. Were their bones scattered in the dirt and snow of this place, or had they wandered further south? 

There was magic here. It had sunk so deep as to have made its home in the porous faces of the stones where it coiled around the fortress like some great, sleeping serpent. 

She stood and picked her way to the dais - broken windows had long lost their sharp edges and were as smooth as seaglass. The cloth banners were too degraded and filthy to accurately tell who had lived here before. 

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Solas asked.

Aslaug glanced at him, who had appeared from nowhere, as he regarded their surroundings fondly with perhaps a touch of disappointment. 

“It’s enormous. Bigger than any Hold I’ve ever seen. Looks more like a lowland castle.” It brought to mind Redcliffe. 

“Yes. It was built to house an army, civilians, workers...built, it would seem, for organizations like the Inquisition.” He slid one foot in front of the other until he was half an arm’s length away. “This Elder One...this Corypheus. You will need to inform our allies and your advisors as soon as possible. We cannot know his mind, or if he is preparing for an attack on Orlais as of yet.” 

She clicked her tongue, hand on her hip even as her attention was tuned in to Solas, she couldn’t stop her eyes from wandering greedily along the walls and stone floors. “I already told Leliana so Cullen and Josephine know. If Leliana knows, that means Cassandra knows and I’d wager a pint that that means Varric knows something by now. Always sticking his nose in as he does.” She paused briefly, “I told Dorian and Felix that I would need to speak to them. This Elder One claims to have stormed the land of dreams in search of his Old Gods and he found nothing. He’s Tevinter, but ancient, so I thought maybe they would know something of him. Perhaps he has descendents...or…” she trailed off at the pronounced pinch between his brows. “You disapprove. Why?” 

“Dorian has proved himself something of an ally and a useful resource, and undoubtedly Felix’s healing abilities saved many lives. However, I do worry you trust them too easily.” 

“Because they’re Tevinter.” 

“Yes, and because both of them are emotionally attached to Alexius, whose sentence still remains unknown. Cassandra has not yet decided what to do with him, and  _ you  _ have not yet made it clear what your decision would be.” 

“I’ve plenty to say to both of them about Tevinter, but there hasn’t been time. I do trust that they don’t want this Elder One to reign over Thedas anymore than we do.” She crossed her arms. “You said yourself they’ve made themselves resources. I know nothing of this Corypheus aside from the fact that he’s mad, and doesn’t seem to understand this world or want to, and wants only to burn it to make way for his old one.  _ They  _ might know something.” 

While she was still learning his body language and the tones of his voice since Solas could speak in riddles, she saw him still quickly, muscles compacting in tenseness and his nostrils flared delicately. His mouth opened briefly then snapped shut as if he meant to say something, but he shook his head briefly. “It is not only that, Aslaug,” he corrected firmly. He turned his head slightly to show his proud profile - the high ridge of his nose, his heavy bottom lip, a stubborn chin that swept out to a strong jaw and back up to a long ear. 

Her mouth parted slightly. “Oh. Forgive me, I didn’t even think -” she looked away, chastised. “If they make remarks, or even suggest to you or Sera or any other elf within the Inquisition, they  _ will  _ be reminded that this is  _ not  _ Tevinter.” Solas nodded once, curtly but didn’t look over at her immediately, still fixing his gaze on the grand entrance to the hall. “I’ve defended you from being belittled before, do you doubt that I would do so again? Dorian may have proven himself to be a decent man, but that doesn’t mean I am blind to the things his country is guilty of - whether he himself is or isn’t.” 

Solas exhaled slowly, “My apologies, it is only that...humans so often take the side of other humans first. I should not have categorized you as the same.” 

Her hand settled at his shoulder without thought and she walked to his front. “Solas, above all else, I trust  _ you  _ the most.” She smiled brightly even as she felt the strain of it all press down on her. Solas’s muscles had relaxed, but he remained still, eyes slightly wide and he seemed incredibly aware of her hand. She cleared her throat and removed it quickly. “Never doubt your place at my side. There is no one else I would rather have standing with me.” 

His mouth opened, then closed. His gaze slid down before meeting hers with the smallest upturn of his mouth. “Thank you.” 

Aslaug smiled at him for another moment, feeling the awkward, gangly sensation of once again being five and ten and liking the young man from Wyvernhold who could carry two rams over his shoulders. She came back to herself and stepped back, “That being said, when I address them, I’ll need you to explain the orb to them. You know more about it than I do and they have to know - Josephine and Leliana especially as we don’t want people hunting elves down for something they had no part in.”  

He nodded, gaze growing distant. “Shall we do so now?” he asked and began slowly walking towards the only exit. 

“Now? No one’s settled in yet; we need to ration out food, send out hunters, find people places to sleep -” she would have continued listing things had Solas not given a short snort of amusement. “Are you laughing at me?” 

“Yes, but only briefly,” Solas offered almost teasingly. 

“Oh that’s a relief. Can I ask why?” she drawled. 

“Scout Harding is already coordinating efforts with volunteers to find food, Felix and the healers have established a temporary camp in which to house the injured and sick, and Cassandra and Fiona are overseeing efforts to clear out debris for makeshift sleeping quarters.” 

Aslaug pinched at the bridge of her nose, feeling useless. “Ah. Suppose everyone is still terrified I’m going to fall over dead.” 

Solas’s look was nearly sharp. “Can you blame them? They wish to help. Giving them tasks is vital to the Inquisition’s recovery; you gave them hope, allowing them to return the favor by shouldering some of your burdens strengthens everyone as a whole.” 

She sighed, ran a hand through her hair, and pursed her lips. “I just want to help. They’re my people and...it took too long for me to accept that.” 

“I think, Aslaug, that you proved that they were yours when you stood against Corypheus alone and risked a suicide mission to give them time.” The pale sunlight that showed through the gaps in the stones and blazed out from the open doors of Skyhold silhouetted his frame. He looked like a shadow with eyes. “Shall we?” 

Her Holdmates waited for a debriefing outside, as did her advisors. Her people had proven themselves more than competent - they didn’t need her hovering over their every move. To do so would be an insult, she realized. 

She nodded crisply. “Yes.” 

 

...

 

She shifted in place and wished she had her glaive or her shield with her. She could at least grab something in her fists without wanting to tug at her clothes like a shy adolescent. Her advisors stood to the side while Aslaug herself was ringed by her peers. Vivienne had chosen a spot nearest to Josephine and Cullen, and beside her was Cassandra with her hawk-like gaze. Sera and Blackwall had chosen to lean against a broken pillar. Varric, Iron Bull, and Leliana stood beneath the shade the enormous Hold cast. Dorian and Felix stood awkwardly closer to her, obviously the only Tevinter outliers in their look and attire. Solas was behind her to her left, constrained and in the shadows. 

“Herald...you mentioned this creature called himself Corypheus?” Josephine seemingly took pity on her and began the conversation. 

“Yes,” she confirmed. “He claims he had been one of the magisters who broke the gates to the land of dreams in search of their dreaming gods. He said they meant to serve them in person.” She hesitated for a moment. “He said they found the Black City. But there was nothing golden and the throne was empty.” It meant little to her; there were gods in the land of dreams, in the stone and earth of the world, in the sea and lakes. The gods were everywhere. 

But not everyone believed that. She sympathized. 

Josephine made a soft noise, hand going to her throat. Cullen sighed roughly and Cassandra flinched. Leliana simply made a vague noise of understanding, but nothing in her expression changed.

“He called himself Corypheus?” Varric asked, hand rubbing his chin. “Well shit.”

“You know something?” Leliana turned to him. 

“Maybe. I’m not certain but, well, I can write someone and find out more,” he sighed.

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “Write to _whom_ , Varric?” 

“A little privacy, Seeker?” 

Cullen frowned at both of them before pushing the discussion forward. “So he is one of the magisters to blame for the Blight.” His gaze tracked Felix and Dorian. Felix looked at his feet. Dorian smiled at the Commander and tipped his head. Cullen’s countenance hardened. 

Aslaug cleared her throat. “Seems like, but that isn’t our issue now. What does concern us now is this: he is tainted, blighted somehow, but not under its sway. He commands the red templars,  _ and  _ a dragon. He is our concern. History can come later.” She waved her hand to dismiss it. “Solas says the orb dates back to the ancient elves, and he has an idea of what it can be capable of.” 

“But Herald, we cannot simply dismiss the possibility that Tevinter may be aligned with this creature in some way. After all, all the venatori are national zealots,” Cullen insisted. 

“He is right. Tevinter must be investigated. All of them.” Cassandra made no attempt at subtlety. 

“You know this may surprise you, but not all Tevinters are cackling madmen waiting in the wings for the world to end,” Dorian drawled. 

“Enough, Tevinter. I was not addressing  _ you,”  _ Cassandra said. 

“Silence,” Aslaug barked. The small courtyard they had chosen away from prying ears and eyes let her voice echo. “We have an enemy. We can focus on the details later - but he nearly killed us. We have to find out who he is and how else he can achieve godhood.” She looked over her shoulder before continuing. “He needed the mark, but it will not answer to him as it had before. Does this mean the orb is useless?” she asked Solas. 

Solas’s lips pursed before flattening. “On the contrary. He still requires the orb if he has a hope of returning the mark’s power to him. As it is now, however, he must bide his time.” 

“To kill me. If I die, does the power return to where it came from?” she asked bluntly. 

Solas’s brows came together, hands clasping behind his back as he straightened. His eyes narrowed as if wincing from a blow. He shifted in place, one foot drawing back. “Possibly,” he said slowly. “But as it stands, he will likely want to gather more power to himself before confronting you again. You have proven yourself to be a rival in his eyes.” 

“Oh dear,” Josephine murmured. 

“Makes sense.” Iron Bull crossed his arms, single eye focused on Aslaug. “If he wants to prove he’s a god, he  _ won’t  _ like it if his followers keep seeing you shit on his plans. He really won’t like it. Being a Tevinter asshole aside.” 

Dorian sniffed indignantly and Aslaug snorted humorously. 

“It’s the truth,” Varric added with forced calm, smile back and his hands open at his sides. “Have you seen the way people looked at you when you came back?” 

She couldn’t stop the grimace from creeping to her face. “That doesn’t mean what they think it means.” There were stories of mortals ascending to godhood, or people receiving legend-marks, or those who were favored by numerous gods. Even if it was known, and existed, Aslaug was hesitant to accept it as her own future. It was a dangerous line to walk, one she was unsure she could approach with grace. To desire to be lifted to godhood invited corrupt gods, invited madness. Figures in Avvar lore had met violent, tragic ends when they wished to follow the path to godhood. It wasn't something one aspired to. It was only something that happened, by choice of the people and the other gods. And such was Corypheus's path. She had no wish to walk behind him in his footsteps to the void that would surely be his end. 

And she didn't want to be bound to their Maker in such a way. 

Varric chuckled. “More than you think know that. But that’s the funny thing about faith - it doesn’t always need to be hard facts; sometimes if people want or need to believe that, they’ll see it. And that’s enough.” 

Aslaug nodded slowly, thoughtfully. Gods formed from wishes; drawn to the mortal existence that believed in some part of them - justice to those who demanded it, kindness for those who needed it, and so on and so forth. Who was she to say that their Maker, however removed, wasn’t watching in some way? Taciturn, but not absent. Not there for _her_ , but there for those who prayed for him. Her people still needed him; he was their only god. The idea that he was more concerned with his worshipers instead of her made her relax.  

The gods were everywhere, in everything. Maybe those that believed in the Maker had moved him enough to guide them safely on their treacherous path. 

“Rival enough that he wants me dead. Is there...a history of him, in Tevinter? Descendents, cousins, legends…” 

Dorian shook his head. “None that I can name off the top of my head, but I may remind you that I am excellent at research and so is Felix - and did I mention we more or less joined the Inquisition after Redcliffe? We’ll look into it.” He reassured her with a wink. 

“If he is who he says he is, then we may not have more than vague legends to report back,” Felix continued seriously. “After Tevinter converted to Andrastianism, no one really wanted to document whether or not they had family ties to the magisters of old. Family lines weren’t tracked again for another generation or so after that.” 

“Try,” she said. “I want to hear about anything that may concern him. He wants to be a god; he will not go gently.” 

 

…

 

Felix’s hands strayed from her neck, to her shoulders and across her ribs. The cool, tingling sensation like swallowing mint-water soothed her aches. His eyes flashed a bright blue - a feeling like being submerged in a clear stream brought to mind her earliest memories of learning about magic at Hrathgur’s knee. It felt like him, so much like him. She nearly expected to feel a heavy hand on her head or hear him cluck his tongue at her. A biting serpent twisted in her breast at the truth of it: she would never again have those things. He was dead and gone. She hoped Korth would allow his spirit to leave the snow even if he would keep the rest of him. Perhaps he would pity the old augur after witnessing how she had failed him. She still had to perform the proper rites, inform Lurkerhold. But the dead could wait. He would understand. He always -  _ had  _ always been understanding.

“You’ve healed up well,” Felix said, face pinched in concentration. The blue faded from his eyes. “No fractures, no more internal bleeding. Solas does excellent work, particularly for a hedge mage.” He pressed on her ribs quickly, prodded at her abdomen. “Any tenderness?” 

Aslaug tsked quietly. “It’s been a week and a half.” Her voice was rougher than she meant and she cleared her throat twice. Felix was generous enough to ignore it and avert his eyes.

He hummed noncommittally, “Some things get missed when you heal with magic; less of a matter in science and more of a feeling. It’s why some people make better healers than others. Unless, of course, you’re an incredible mage and an excellent healer. I’ve heard the Grey Warden Anders was one of the few.” 

“Shame we can’t find him,” she commented. 

“I can’t blame him for wanting to stay hidden. And...well, it doesn’t sound like he was doing too well, near the end. Master Tethras said he and Justice changed each other. Twisted each other.” Felix caught her eye and she saw a telltale sign of tightening skin. “A cautionary tale to most. Even in Tevinter he was used as the example of everything that could go wrong. ‘Make friends with spirits or bind them to you and this is what will happen’. I fear that...have I made a mistake?” 

She lowered her voice to a whisper, “Do you know what god you carry in you?” Without waiting for Felix to stumble over his answer, she continued, “She is Patience. She stayed with Hrathgur for decades and oversaw all the gods the children, including  _ me _ , carried until our learning was done. They watched over all of us and now she watches  _ you _ . You did not bind her, nor did Hrathgur. She was given a choice and she chose to help you because she saw you as worthy. Do not disregard her in such a way; she chose you.” 

“I never meant any disrespect. It is only...from his records, Anders was a good man, and Justice wasn’t ever a demon; and together…” he shook his head. “I am afraid of being changed and of changing her.” 

“That was different. Justice is not a kind god. Whatever form it may take, it is  _ justice _ . Justice is not of the same ilk as...Generosity or Humility. Anders was a man who wanted to help his friend and - he did not understand what it could do to him or to Justice. It is why other gods must watch young mages. Hrathgur was the augur; he was always surrounded by other gods so they were never in any danger. If they were, the others would have intervened. Anders and Justice didn’t have that. They were alone - and that is the deadliest thing to a young mage, god or no god.” 

“And me? I’m alone, who will intervene if I become a problem?” Felix’s eyes were wide, and a little desperate. It made him look so young.

“Me,” she said, tapping gently him on his chest with a closed fist. “Solas. Dorian. And the gods we will welcome to this place. You are not alone, Felix son of Alexius.” 

He gave a small, tremulous smile. He didn’t speak for a long moment. “Alright. I should get back to the tents. There’s a cough going around. And you’re cleared for normal activity, by the way.” He strode away quickly. 

Aslaug watched him go, felt the ebb of the land of dreams recede with him like a tide. 

A pale, scrawny boy with an overlarge hat appeared at her side within a blink and she startled. A rogue, had to be. She opened her mouth to speak but he spoke first. 

“You helped. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it was. She helps him too when the nightmares come and he feels pain in his blood. Hot like smelting iron, dripping through him until there’s nothing left but the taint. He doesn’t hear the songs from the deep as much now; a lullaby that cuts at his insides like a thousand needles. She helps. So do you.” Wide blue eyes took her in. The tide that had receded with Felix’s departure came back, swallowing up the air right beside her, pulling her into a current that she had felt near young mages in Lurkerhold. His head tilted slightly. “No. That’s not right. It’s only me. There isn’t another one here.” 

“Who are you?” her suspicious tone was offset but the genuine curiosity she felt. 

“I’m Cole. I came to warn you at Haven about the templars, but I took too long. Cassandra was there with me when she had to fight Envy. It was very angry that she got away. It got away too though, so I went looking for it...and that’s why I was late. I’m sorry.” He picked at his hands. “You don’t remember me, but I found you when you were looking for everyone else. ‘Cold. I’m so cold. Avvar don’t get cold. I’m dying. I survived Corypheus, survived his dragon, survived the avalanche, but the Frostbacks will still kill me. I don’t want to die. Please hear me. Please help me. I don’t want to die now.’” Aslaug remained silent even as her heart thudded in her chest as if it meant to break through the cage of her ribs. “I heard you. I found you - you were too tired to stand, and you wanted to rest, but if you did you might not have woken up. I brought you back, but Cassandra and Cullen carried you to Solas. Then he healed you, but you already know that.” 

“Cole,” she muttered and the name finally jogged a brief memory. Cobwebs she hadn’t known existed in her memory pulled away; stringy remnants giving way to Cassandra’s tale of Therinfal. “Cole. Cassandra’s Cole - the god she spoke of when she went to get the templars.” 

“Yes. And you are Aslaug Gunhilddotten, daughter of winter and stone. You saved the mages. Thank you,” he said. “Corypheus was angry you stole his mages, and that you tried to steal his templars too. But he was angrier that you stood against him.” 

A prickle that felt like unease or perhaps anticipation went threaded through her scalp. “I can imagine.” He was - he was  _ real _ , before her. Not the color of fog or smoke - he had not been given some amorphous form in a place where the land of dreams was a breath away. He looked like flesh and blood; he cast a shadow on the broken cobblestones and grass beneath their feet and his chest moved as he breathed. Without knowing, her voice and eyes went doe-soft. “What god are you, Cole?” 

“I listen for hurts to help, pain to ease. I heard Cassandra there; she needed help, and I heard you too. The healers help with the pain, and so does Felix, but some things aren’t seen - invisible tangles that catch, caught in a hook that bleeds when it isn’t pulled right. I want to help. I want to stay.” 

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, yes.  _ Stay _ . You are welcome here, kindness - Cole.” A kind god, one that had already aided her Holdmate and their people, who saved her, and wished to stay to continue doing so - how could she say no? Why would she? No matter what form this god took, she’d be a fool to reject its offer. His.  _ His  _ offer.

She - she was not prepared for a god in Skyhold. No ritual, no songs, no chants, no offerings or praise - and Skyhold was nowhere near ready to hold a proper welcome for a god. It must not matter as Cole had extended himself first, but it was not how things were done. She had no idea what altar to build or what he liked. Even so, there was an elation that built within her chest warmly, blooming outwards to the rest of her body. 

His eyes widened. “ _ Oh _ \- thank you! I’m glad to be here too.” 

“I -  we were not prepared for a god, yet. Skyhold is yet new and we hadn’t…” she floundered for words. “I do not know what to build for you. Or what offerings you might like.” 

Cole regarded her silently for a moment. “I don’t need one.” 

Aslaug stiffened. “But...but you’re - you’re our god now. You’re helping us, keeping the ones that might do this Hold harm away, how else will they find you when they need to speak to you or ask for help?” 

But he was god made of flesh - did the same rules apply? She had no idea; she was no augur. Solas was the augur, technically, but he wasn’t Avvar so he wouldn’t likely know either. 

“Small hands on the altar, mother whispers to pray to him for protection. If you need him, call his name, sing his song. Mother’s hair falls around us, cheek to mine, ‘he can always find us. But here is where he hears us the best and knows our love for him.’” Cole rocked back on his heels. 

Aslaug felt her breath catch for a moment. 

“You want to connect, not just there, but here too.” He wrung his hands. “To feel them with you and to know you aren’t alone. You want that for everyone else. But they can see me, and I’m  _ here  _ not like the other spirits.” 

She hesitated. “I don’t know what you want or need. I’m no augur.” 

“To help. To be where I need to be.” Cole’s gaze turned to the far end of the battered courtyard where the healing tents were staked. 

She nodded slowly. “Alright.” 

Cole’s attention had already strayed from her and he vanished from her side with catch in the curtains that separated the worlds. 

She wanted to follow him to the tents, to watch this god that walked among the living and mortal far from his realm but she restrained herself. There were other things that needed doing and her toddling after him like a lost child wouldn’t help anyone. 

She chewed on her lip, trying to bite down the giddy smile that would have cracked her face in two if she had been made of porcelain. She covered her mouth when her expression caught the eye of several soldiers. She squatted, hand still covered her face and her shoulders shook, threatening laughter or tears but none of it mattered. 

She had a Hold. She had her people. And a god valued them enough to welcome himself within the fold without a ritual. They may not have understood the good omens that had lain upon their path, but she did. 

Let the soldiers and scouts stare. She could blame it on her previous injuries. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and just as a quick sidenote - Cassandra doesn't know about Corypheus; she does question Varric about Legacy in canon, but here, she never asked and Varric never said anything (a bit of a double whammy). and the heimstǫð chapters are going to be slow-going; lots of exposition, setting up, and getting skyhold ready (still have a lot of character interactions though!), but after that there'll be a tiny timeskip.


	27. heimstǫð twa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vi föds, vi kämpar, och vi dör som allting dö. Resten, Avvar, med din fars far och din mors mor. Har inga dödliga funderingar. Kan du aldri gå tapt. Kompasset skal lede deg hjem.
> 
> (We are born, we struggle, and we die as all things die. Rest, Avvar, with your father's father and your mother's mother. Have no mortal wonderings. May you never be lost. The compass will guide you home.) 
> 
> Jeg ber om tilgivelse jeg fortjener ikke
> 
> (I ask for forgiveness I don’t deserve)

A door hidden beneath the bridge opened to the side of the mountain. It had been splintered partially open at one point. Ice covered it and its metal hinges had rusted. She broke it down easily, slipping down the narrow pathway it led to. It was awkward to balance the ram she’d felled over her shoulders as she made the slippery climb to a small plateau ahead, but Hrathgur had carried her most prized possessions down to Havenhold for her before.

Frid and Run gazed down from the night-veil they were cloaked in, softly shrouded by white clouds resembling dandelions. Their light guided her way.

Snow crunched loudly beneath the combined weight of herself and the sacrifice over her shoulders. Her breath steamed the air before her as she continued humming. She was alone, and she didn’t have a rune drum or have the time to make one herself, so her voice would have to serve as the rhythm. She had started it after her brief hunt, and could not stop until the rite was done.

The plateau was close enough that she was able to finish her trip in good time. She set the ram down carefully before she began. Breathing through her nose, she didn’t break stride when she left her humming behind and began to sing deeply from her stomach and throat.

With her hunting knife she drew an Alamarri runic compass. Her ancestors once used as it as a signpost to guide their way across the seas and the unknown. Each line was decorated with symbols - mountains, snowflakes, lightning bolts and stormclouds, the waves of the sea, vague silhouettes of gods and demons, the wings of a dragon, the three connected triangles of death, and the imperfect, unclosed circle of life. The middle of the intersecting lines was outlined by a small circle, and another larger one.

The compass was complete. Aslaug carefully stepped back from it and looked at her work. It wasn’t as perfect or pretty as the rites Hrathgur had led for Lurkerhold, but it was genuine and sincere in its making. She couldn’t do more than that. She hoped the gods would understand.

Continuing her singing even as she felt the bite of the chilled winds close in on her throat, she opened her salvaged paint pouches. She had borrowed blue from a woman in Harthold who gave it to her freely when Aslaug had expressed what it was for.

She herself wore only white on her face with black in her eye sockets out of respect for the dead.

She painted the face of the ram blue, swirls of white and black around its mouth and nose to mimic Lurkerhold’s design. The animal was carried over to the compass and lain gently down in the middle.

Hrathgur had had no sky burial. He’d had no rites. He’d been buried beneath the mountain’s might, but killed by a lesser enemy. She had failed him. Failed him the same way she had failed the other people who believed her to have been sent by their god. And now she had to give his rites to a ram she killed, to try to appease his spirit and help guide the Lady to him in some measure.

The compass had granted their ancestors guidance into the unknown. She could only pray that it would grant the same to him.

She shut her eyes as she sank to her knees, throat nearly raw from time and the wind. “ _Vi föds, vi kämpar, och vi dör som allting dö. Resten, Avvar, med din fars far och din mors mor. Har inga dödliga funderingar._ ” Her hand moved just above the ram, skimming its hide, as she spoke. “ _Kan du aldri gå tapt. Kompasset skal lede deg hjem._ ”

There were no sounds of affirmation from other Avvar, no songs of mourning and death, no ululations but her own, lost to the wind and the never ending mountains. Only her. Just her and the body of a ram because she had failed her mentor so badly she couldn’t even give him proper funeral rites. Her voice cracked and broke several times as she ululated, calling to the Lady to take Hrathgur even if his body was lost. She called to Korth to take his bones even if his death had not been done well - the fault was her own and she would pay for it, she was certain. Hrathgur didn’t deserve to suffer for that. He didn’t deserve to be alone and lost.

Frid and Run were distant observers, far removed from mortal concerns, but they were the only other witnesses to Hrathgur’s rites. If she’d had his body, she would have invited the others, and perhaps the other Avvar. But this was not simply about funeral rites. It was his shame bared to the world. His shame, and hers, but only she was left to carry it. It was fitting only the gods were witness to it.

Finally, she couldn’t continue and she stopped completely. Sitting on her calves, she opened her eyes to look at the ram. It had Lurkerhold’s paint on it, meant to represent a body for Hrathgur to channel to so the Lady would find him more easily.

But it was so foolish. Childish. Heat ran along the rims of her eyes, welling in the corners and it overflowed, spilling down her painted cheeks and over her jaw. This was not Hrathgur’s body.

He deserved better than a ram puppet to be drawn to, or for the Lady’s servants to follow the compass to his spirit. Whether or not he had known leaving with her that night would lead to his demise, it did. Had she been there alone, she would have certainly died. Had her Holdmates gone with her, more people of Havenhold would have died, or perhaps they would have in Hrathgur’s position.

Winter was meant for death, the dying, and the culling of the weak. Hrathgur had meant himself as well. He’d known. It was why Patience had left him to assist Felix. She had no right to feel the small knot of fury she felt at any of them. Felix was a good man and deserved more time. Patience was an old god drawn to mortals needing her. Hrathgur had, by both Avvar and lowland standards, been an old, old man. There was no glory to be had in dying of old age. Hakkon didn’t look kindly on those that did not die in a struggle of some kind - through weather or sickness or battle - so perhaps Hrathgur had been right to follow her that night. Perhaps he’d been saving himself - but...it was impossible to not feel cheated of him, somehow. As if she had any right to cling to him as she had as a child.

But Hrathgur had been her last, true, strong connection to Lurkerhold, to the Avvar people.

She had been meant for the lowlands since she’d been marked and though she accepted it now and embraced those of Havenhold as her own, she still had had the luxury of a direct link to the Avvar in him. That was gone now. _He_ was gone.

She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes. The tears didn’t stop, but she made no noise, no hiccuping or sniffling. She wasn’t a child. She bowed her head.

What the terror god had spoken of in the Fallow Mire echoed now, distilled in her blood and sinew once it had been given voice. _Fire is her water. They will make it yours too, Aslaug No One’s Daughter of Nowhere._ When she was dead and gone, who would perform her rites? Would they burn her in the way they burned most of their dead? Bury her, as the Dalish and the dwarves did?

The Avvar they had recruited were temporary. They would not choose to live in Skyhold - it was not Avvar, as they were. They would leave and join a Hold that needed new blood. And those that came to assist in giving the Inquisition more numbers would go back to their homes soon. When they were gone, who was left? Just her. She had friends and Holdmates and people now, but she was the only Avvar in a Hold. She would need to teach them Avvar funeral rites. She didn’t want to be burned or buried.

The knife in her breast twisted - she would have people care for her body once she died, and knew she could trust. She would be given rites.

Hrathgur was left with the carcass of a ram and a compass.

She allowed her hand to lightly touch the compass. “ _Jeg ber om tilgivelse jeg fortjener ikke_."

She stabbed her hunting knife through a sheet of ice beside the ram and left a crown of dried, twisted elfroot over the hilt.

She tried to conjure up the sound of Hrathgur’s voice scolding her, his rolling laughter, his deep voice humming before he began his duties to the gods. She thought back to the heaviness of his hand on her shoulder, patting her back. She couldn’t linger. The Inquisition was holding a funeral for all those lost at Havenhold, and she had done all she could for Hrathgur.

The wind rasped over ice and rock. There was no warmth found in this place. She was Avvar and meant for the cold and winter, but she still shivered in her thick furs as she made her way back to Skyhold; a lone figure beneath moonlight who would stop and look back periodically as though expecting to see someone looking back.

…

Dawn was already creeping up by the time the Andrastians began their funeral rites. It was mostly prayers she didn’t know and a mournful dirge she’d never heard before.

While Mother Giselle and most of Maker’s faithful looked on in sorrow at the mass pyre, Aslaug kept her face still and set. If this were a proper Avvar Hold, there would be mourning and then celebration. They were different here. They didn’t celebrate the life lived. They only mourned for an unfinished life, or for the sake of those left behind. Bittersweet, in its way.

Dorian the Tevinter of House Pavus sidled up next to her.

“Maker...all those lives lost. And for what? A madman who thinks the world can be so easily controlled,” he muttered. “A mage who presumably calls Tevinter his _home_.”

She had no words that would set him at ease. She watched the great fire reach up to the sky, casting shadows and hazy glows across faces. “If you are looking for comfort or reassurance, I am sorry but I don’t know what to say.”

“The library here is atrociously stocked. Most of what the Inquisition brought are history books on Ferelden and Orlais, and of course the Chantry’s own rather volatile history. I spoke to your spymaster about acquiring some genealogical scrolls on some of the older bloodlines recorded in Tevinter. And I vaguely recognize the orb you were describing. Well, maybe. I’ll know for certain when the books I’ve asked your ambassador or spymaster to gather for us arrive.” Dorian ran a gentle finger over his moustache. He didn’t look as though he’d heard her. “Ah, have I mentioned I’ve taken to requisitioning items?”

He continued murmuring, although half of it sounded rhetorical so she left him to it, and looked out over the crowd. Some faces peered back up at her. They looked apprehensive or lost.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said suddenly. His closed fist supported his chin. Her brows came together. “I’m sorry about your...mentor. Felix said he would have died if he hadn’t passed on his... spirit to him.”

Her chest tightened and it was difficult to swallow, difficult to speak, but Dorian’s eyes were on her and he was waiting for an answer. “Hrathgur chose how to die. Few get that chance. He  and Patience saw something in Felix worth saving.” Hrathgur had chosen how to die, but he hadn’t died well, and he’d likely thought she would’ve managed to have given him his rites. Her anger threatened to lash out at Dorian or Felix, to rage against Hrathgur’s memory for being a stubborn old man, but it was folly. She was the one to blame, and who should carry that blame

“Do you?”

Her mouth tightened. “I am trying,” she said evenly.

Dorian gave a half smile and nodded. “I understand. And this is probably inappropriate of me to ask, but are you honoring him alongside the other deceased?”

“I gave him his rites before this.”

He frowned slightly, brows lifting to meet. When he spoke, he sounded concerned. “Alone?”

“There is no one else from Lurkerhold here. And...I failed him. There wasn’t a body so I couldn’t give him a sky burial. I did what I could to make sure the Lady of the Skies finds him and hopefully Korth will keep his remains. It was a shameful thing. I didn’t want other people to see it. Neither would he,” she said shortly.

“Ah,” it was less of a word, more of a sad exhale. “Another reason this Corypheus needs to die, I assume?”

She grunted. “I don’t need many reasons to kill him. But I will enjoy it more now when I’m able to sink my spear in his rotting flesh and I will cherish the look on his face when he realizes that a _mortal barbarian_ was his death.”

“My, you are far more dramatic than I originally thought,” he said. His eyes were a little wider, exaggerated by the carefully applied kohl around them.

“Dramatic?” her voice was rougher than she meant. “If I meant to be dramatic, Dorian of House Pavus, I’d talk about much _joy_ it would bring me to see this abomination on his knees, begging for forgiveness for all the helpless people he killed. I’d say that upon his death, I would scatter his body across the world so he would be lost and alone forever, and _never be whole_ . If I wanted to be dramatic, I would say that I will make a legend of what I will do to him when I face him. I would say that when I am done with him, the Avvar will sing songs about it so loudly that even Rivain will hear and their voices will shake the Deep Roads. _That_ would be dramatic.”

Dorian blinked several times before speaking. “I suspect that if Master Tethras were around to hear you say all of that, he may quote you instead of actually bothering to write something.”

She huffed. “It’s only the truth, Dorian.” After a brief moment’s pause, she leaned over and bumped her shoulder to his arm indelicately.

“I believe that’s what is frightening.” 

...

He was fifty-six, and had been a trapper and tanner for forty-three years. His wife, his dear, dear sweet wife had been fifty-seven and had been a baker for forty-four years. Haven had once belonged to the Cult of Andraste before the Hero of Ferelden drew them out of their homes and killed most of them; scattering the children and women left to the winds. Then Haven once again belonged to the true faithful, and he and his wife sought some measure of peace there; away from the lords and ladies who played court while his sons and daughters had marched to war and died, and whose names no one ever recalled but he and his grieving wife.

Haven seemed a paradise of it own. It was small and quiet, with the Sisters and Mother Octavia singing the Chant. The winds could be bitterly cold, but crops grew well and the Temple of Sacred Ashes seemed to allow them to prosper in their own little ways.

Their Lady was kindly, but gone from this world and whether She watched them then or not, he couldn’t say. He and his wife paid their tithes, prayed every morning, and listened to the young Chanter repeat the Canticles of their Lady and the Maker.

Haven was still small, still shrouded in the wilderness. They didn’t see many pilgrims. Some had come in the beginning for the ashes of Andraste, but the ashes had vanished once the Hero of Ferelden had left. He and his wife had made the pilgrimage, same as many who had gone to see the Lady’s final resting place, but no one had truly seen Her remains.

As it should be, Mother Octavia had said wisely.

He understood. He didn’t understand many things - neither he nor his wife could read or write common, but they knew that some things were not meant to be truly understood by man. The Maker and his Bride being one of the many. They trusted in the Chantry, as they always had.

Then the mages and templars went to war and the Chantry was silent. Silence had never bothered him, but it did when the people who gave their coin, blood, and sweat to the Chantry begged for an answer and none came.

Then the sky broke open and demons poured out and the Temple of Sacred Ashes was just that - a pile of bloody ash. The mages and the templars and the sisters were dead - so many dead - and the Chantry mourned for their lost but there were still people who were lost. People driven from their homes from the damned war. Banging on Chantry doors that wouldn’t open.

The people were starving and wounded and weary and losing faith.

And still, the peasants were left without a home while templars and mages pillaged and went mad. Mother Octavia had said to open their doors to the other faithful out of kindness. They did. The worst mistake of his life.

His wife had died when a mage had set fire to their home when they let templars come in to eat. He’d been tending to the salted meat out in the barn when he saw his home, the home he’d had for eight years, go up in flame. His wife screaming, screaming like Andraste must have screamed when Hessarian set her alight.

And him, with his bum leg, clawing and pulling at the door even as it burned his hands, boiled his skin and made his flesh weep clear fluid.

She died screaming his name.

The mage hadn’t cared. Just swept into his barn and took his stored meat and his mule. Just left an old man crying on the ground.

The Inquisition came, wanting to right the wrongs of the world - but he was...he was so tired. He was no soldier. He wasn’t a man of speeches and papers.

He was just a widower who dreamed of his wife and wanted the world right again. The Chant brought no comfort. The Maker and Andraste were silent. They answered no prayers. They offered no balm for the scars on his hands that still burned, or comfort for the ache he carried in his heart.

The Lady Seeker promised vengeance for their Divine. What did he care for a woman he’d never seen before? What did he care when that woman had been able to ignore his wife, and all others like her dying in this damn war?

The woman they said had been delivered by Andraste herself was one of those wild people from the mountains. A mark to close the sky, they said. The Herald, they called her.

Herald of what - the end of the world? A holy war?

She closed the sky at least. Then the templars came - that bloody fucking war knocking at the gates of Haven yet again - and there was more death, and pain and fear. And there he was; an old man with crippled hands, still alive somehow at the end of it all.

They were lost in the snow for two days before somehow that wild woman found them again. Andraste guided her, they said.

She had found them when it shouldn’t have been possible - something thudded within his ribs, rattling them like a prisoner at his bars - he’d felt it once. When Mother Octavia had sung the verses for the dead; her voice rising within the little Chantry. She sounded the way the dawn might if it could speak. She could wake the dead themselves with her voice. His wife had said she must have been blessed with Andraste’s voice; how else could she sound so beautiful and terrible?

It was a kind of awful feeling like looking at the Maker’s face and knowing such goodness and purity came at a cost.

But there the Herald stood atop a snowbank with her hair in her face and her stern features fixed on all of them as she led the way to a new place. Her flock. They were hers now, he thought then. Oh but he wished his love was there with him, to feel this feeling of knowing that somewhere someone had answered him.

She was not gentle and wise as Andraste’s carved face had been in the Chantry. But she was there, urging them through the snow and hopelessness. She bellowed over the howling winds, the crunch of snow and ice, and pressed them to journey on to a great fortress called Skyhold. A place of refuge, a place that brokered no weakness. High walls and guarded by the Frostbacks themselves - he doubted the Chantry or Andraste would have wished for it.

They’d have wanted gardens, maybe, or a small village like Haven.

But they didn’t have Andraste or Revered Mothers guiding them. They had this wild woman who stood against the monster and his dragon, who forced the mages and templars to hide their teeth. This wild woman who wasn’t a kindly maid of song and loveliness. She was a bulwark against the storm.

Mother Giselle spoke of the Chant and being welcomed into the Maker’s arms while the pyre erected for their dead raged before all of them. The wild woman probably didn’t know the words.

But he saw her there; everyone did, an unsettling vision in furs and leathers with white face paint and black over her eyes. She was silent and watched the flames, watched the Mother, watched all of them. Their eyes met and he repressed a shiver. Not a kind face, but for all the goodness that the Maker held, he doubted He would have one either. He froze in her stare, hands twisted together, and she looked away and he was able to breathe again.

His wife would say she had been blessed with those eyes by the Maker himself. A terrible, wonderful thing.

Mother Giselle bowed her head when she finished and the others around him repeated her final words back to her in a soft murmur. He didn’t, and took notice when the man and woman next to him were still looking in the direction of their wild Herald. She didn’t know the words or seem to care to know them. If she was to be their guide into a new world, as people claimed, what did it matter if he spoke the Chant at all?

...

Josephine felt like an old handkerchief that had been left in the corner of some dusty house, forgotten and colorless. Stacks of parchment lined the old table one of the workers had dug out for her use. Reports from Leliana’s people about supply lines, inventory needs from various workers, what the Inquisition had currently, and...a list of the deceased and the missing.

Her hands shook when they drifted over the parchment, and her throat threatened to close on her entirely. She had been unable to finish comparing those lost to the ones that had been found and identified. Cullen had kindly offered to take it, and she would have gladly turned it over, if his eyes weren’t red and sleepless.

The Commander had enough on his hands.

Most of them were scouts or soldiers, so she categorized them respectively and sent them to Leliana and Cullen. The others were workers. And there were several children, thought to have been cut down when the red templars, as Pyp and Leliana’s other agents had taken to calling them, charged. Children who didn’t seem to have family, who stayed with in the Inquisition taking odd jobs where they could.

_Gregoire Redden aged 12_

_Mirrie Redden aged 9_

_Samwell Burnap aged 14_

_Wade Summers aged 10_

And the list went on, detailing the brief lives of the children written down as missing. It climbed to twenty-three orphans. The Inquisition had opened its doors to everyone without a care of who they called king or what their beliefs were so long as they wished to help. It had been her idea to accept children, often placing them to work alongside older workers so they might learn a trade. Orphans weren’t usually treated kindly in war, and this war had been no different. She thought...she thought it would save them. To help them prepare for a future they may not have otherwise - and they had gladly accepted the meager offerings of the Inquisition, enjoyed working and learning. They had knocked on the Inquisition’s doors and she had let them in without a second thought.

A drop of water landed on the parchment and spread across the name of the twenty-second. Josephine cupped her hand over her mouth and stifled a hitching gasp. More tears welled, pressing in on the borders of her lashes before rolling down. Her hiccuping sobs couldn’t be silenced and yet she was unable to turn away from the list of missing children, with sketches of the deceased found to be identified later.

She should have rejected them earlier, perhaps sent them to Redcliffe. Redcliffe had a history of tragedy and would have understood their plight. King Alistair was a kind man; he wouldn’t have turned them away. She should have - she knew what it might come to; Haven had not been defensible. She had read numerous strategies of war, had spoken at length with various decorated generals as well as Commander Cullen. She’d studied the history of Thedas, especially its bloodiest moments - she had known what had been at stake, what was at stake and yet...she had still failed to see this outcome in its entirety. All those lives, snuffed out as easily as a candle.

The Herald had bought them time, without which the Inquisition would have died beneath the might of the templars and the dragon and that _Corypheus_ . Leliana blamed herself for pulling her scouts back and Cullen took responsibility upon himself that he hadn’t fortified Haven more heavily, but the true fact was that _her_ job was to foresee any possible complications within Haven. She was supposed to watch over the workers and civilians because they reported to her, depended on her to balance wages and make room for them within the Inquisition.

Her hands came up to cover her face, fingers curling as she fought to breathe. All those people. Gone.

She didn’t hear the door to her ruined office swing open, but she heard the heavy tread of boots on the stone. “Lady Montilyet, my people have finished putting their necessities together. Harritt even arranged his by immediate needs. Some of the soldiers were able to salvage some of our winter rations from the most recent trek to Haven and I...oh.”

Josephine looked up, hair askew and feeling tacky moisture stick to her face and hands. She blinked and flustered, groping blindly for her handkerchief to cover her ruddy face. Cullen shuffled his feet, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Forgive me, my Lady I hadn’t realized...the door wasn’t locked, you see. I should have knocked but -” he hesitantly swayed in one spot. “My Lady...is there...I mean, no, something’s wrong, isn’t there my Lady?”

Josephine cleared her throat to answer but couldn’t push the words out - would that she were as stoic as Leliana or steadfast as Cassandra - and so she only shook her head. She thought Cullen might leave, but she heard him come closer ever so slowly. Hiding behind her handkerchief and exposing one eye to look up at him, she saw him frown down at her desk. The sketches of the dead, the names of those missing…

“Oh, Lady Montilyet,” he said softly. His fingers reached down, lifting one list to find another, moving one sketch to uncover a second. “Lady Montilyet, I told you that I would - that there was no reason for you to do this yourself.”

“I - I must, Commander. I must. These,” she hiccupped again, “these people trusted me with their future, their lives. I told them the Inquisition was - was the start to, to a new world and...and…” The tears came again, hot and fresh and soaking through her handkerchief quickly.

There was the sound of rustling and a soft Fereldan oath uttered before Cullen offered a rag to her. “My apologies, it isn’t as fine as your handkerchief, but it is clean and will soak up more than that,” he waved a hand at it.

She took the rag gratefully. “Forgive me, to be crying to myself at a time like this when we need to rebuild as quickly as we can -”

Cullen cleared his throat. “My Lady, no one here thinks that you, of all people, are being irresponsible. And if you didn’t mourn, I’m sure we’d wonder. Mourning is - difficult but not something to be ashamed of, I believe. And you are a gentler person than most here...that is not a terrible thing, in these dark times.” He cleared his throat a second time, and his hand hovered over her shoulder before slowly descending. His grip was firm, warm, and steady. “I’ll leave the reports here for now, my Lady. Please take your time.” His hand left and he straightened hurriedly, before making long strides to the exit.

“Commander,” she called out in an embarrassingly warbly voice. He stopped and turned back to her. “Please eat something. I know it’s been...a trying time for all of us, but please eat.”

Cullen looked away and nodded, rubbing the back of his neck again. “As you say, my Lady. Excuse me.” He ducked out quickly, but shut the door softly behind him.

She stared at the spot the Commander had occupied. She felt herself settle a little more, the ambassador retaking her place and smoothing out the torn edges of Josephine. She pulled the rough rag from her face and saw that _C. Rutherford_ was embroidered clumsily on it with a rearing mabari.

Josephine sniffled and pulled the Commander’s most recent reports closer to her. She could still work - but perhaps a small break from the deceased for just a short time would do her some good. Just a little while.

...

“What we brought will not last for more than a week...and reports are coming in that we will have more mouths to feed. The faithful look to the Inquisition, now. To you,” Leliana said without looking up from the parchment in her hands.

Aslaug could read the report herself if she was given enough time. Their letters still took her a while to piece together, but she already spoke the language fluently so understanding the structure and meaning was simple enough. She wouldn’t trust herself to write a letter to anyone yet though. Leliana, seeing her gaze at the report, handed it over obligingly.

“Look to me because Havenhold fell? Because this wasn’t a god-mark?” she asked rhetorically. It was difficult to not taste the bitterness of defeat and failure even now. It tasted of ash and smoke, and smelled of death.

Leliana hummed thoughtfully. “I once followed the Hero of Ferelden because I thought I was chosen, similarly to you. Whether or not the visions I experienced were in fact the Maker guiding me to his side or not, only this mattered: that I was there.” She regarded Aslaug sharply. “Whatever has placed you here, through divine intervention or not, no longer matters. The faithful come because they believe Andraste delivered you to us. I have learned that we make our own truths. That will be theirs. What is yours, Herald?”

Aslaug stared at the script before her. “That Corypheus must die,” she said simply. “I have seen the future at his feet. I doubt we would live through it.”

The redheaded woman nodded slowly before she peered around them quickly. “And I have learned that...we share interests, do we not?”

Aslaug stared at her blankly for a moment. “You’re a fierce fighter, Leliana, but I’m not interested.”

Leliana’s eyes lit up and she laughed. It was a musical, rare sound. “I’m flattered, Herald, but that was not what I meant. The mages. What future do you see for them? For the Chantry? As it is...you hold the future of both in your hands.”

There was a time when Aslaug would have not have considered her words to change the Chantry or the mages below regardless of what she said about them - they were lowlanders and it was not her place to encourage them to change. But it was now. Skyhold was her place, they had become her people and she was - was she their thane, now?

“They will be free.” The consistent belief that mages needed to be caged and locked away, kept from other people, was still so strange and cruel. They assumed that mages given equal rights to lands and children and families would turn all of the lowlands into Tevinter. They assumed it meant sacrificing the weak and innocent for power, dealings with corrupt gods, and slavery. It didn’t have to be - Aslaug knew it couldn’t be like the Avvar, necessarily, but it didn’t have to be this fearful, inescapable future.

Leliana looked out of the tower. “I’ve known many mages, and many of them were better people than me. Yet I am free and they are not. It isn’t right. Not everything in the world must be fair and kind, but there are wrongs we have the power to right.”

Aslaug set the report down on the old desk Leliana had dug out of storage somewhere. “I do not know how I can prevent the Towers from rising from their ashes and claiming the mages, but I am willing to try.” She traced the lines in the wood with a fingertip. “And the tranquil. We must take care of them. They have been denied what they are and exist as...shells that do not want or dream.”

“I know you do not fully accept the actions of the Chantry or perhaps even agree with its existence, but you must know it cannot continue on this path.” Leliana tapped her fingers on her arm.

Aslaug quirked a brow. “Are you telling me these things so you might maneuver me to do your bidding?”

Leliana gave a half-smile. “If I thought you were less agreeable, perhaps. However, to tell you the truth, I find myself...confessing to you. I have questioned my faith before, I have questioned the Chantry and those within it, and I have questioned myself. You are...safe. I can speak to you about these things without starting an argument, or a debate about morals and my devotion. You believe in all the gods, even ones we don’t have names for. But the Avvar can doubt them. Can question them. Can turn from them, if they choose to.”

Ah. “You question your Maker even if you don’t doubt he exists.”

Leliana turned to her. “Yes. It is something I envy about the Avvar.”

Aslaug leaned her hip into the corner of the desk. “Doubting what someone wants doesn’t mean they aren’t there. We all question plans, thoughts.”

“Do you question the Lady of the Skies? Korth?” The spymaster sounded more curious than annoyed.

“We don’t know our gods if we don’t. I can’t claim to know their designs all the time. No one can, really. But that’s the difference between the Avvar and the Chantry. We can actually speak to our gods.” She gave Leliana a long look. “I haven’t heard of any lowlander, or Andrastian, claiming to have spoken words with the Maker. If there was one, they were probably a mage. And if they did say as such, they were probably made tranquil.”

Leliana frowned slightly, eyes hardening. “Yes. Something else that is true, and must be changed.”

She wasn’t a political creature, or one known to act in subtlety, but she understood what Leliana was implying. “And how would you change it, exactly?”

The Sister looked down at her desk, gloved fingers spacing its edges. “Right now, the Inquisition is in a place of power and leadership to the world. Or, at least we could be. The faithful flock here, and the faithless will follow because of what they had witnessed. They all look to you, hoping that you will save them from this threat,” Leliana met her gaze. “We have some common ground, you know. I do not believe that the Chantry should be preserved as it is, or that the Circles should rise up again...there is so much the world must change if it is to move forward.”

Aslaug’s voice was stony. “That doesn’t give me leave to change the world as _I_ would wish it. Or _you_.” Deciding the fate of the Hold was one thing - Leliana spoke of changing the fate of the world. A world Aslaug was very, very new to.

Leliana gave a soft scoff. “If we do not, Herald, someone else will. In times such as these, there are always people grabbing for whatever power they can and they are rarely gracious with it.” She paused, tapping her finger on the desk. “Something to consider, at least.”

The wind rolled in through the small window beside them and shifted through her hair with cold fingers. Her gaze was drawn out to the courtyard where sunlight filtered in through the cracks and ruins of Skyhold, to the bustle of early morning workers going about their day. Loud brays of mules and the lowing of oxen accompanied the general noise of people speaking.

Her people looked tired and drawn from the services of the earlier hours, but there seemed to be an undeniable energy in the air. Purpose, drive, ambition. Skyhold was filling with it, and with it, the needs and wants of her people from Havenhold. And there was more on the way. More to pay their respects to their Chantry, or more to join Skyhold - it seemed to be in the balance of the Inquisition’s next steps. Her next steps.

She straightened as she folded her arms. Her Hold, her people, her steps. She had failed Havenhold. She would not fail Skyhold. She would not be driven from a place that would become her home again - and neither would any of those who considered themselves to be _her people_. Never again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex entry
> 
> Avvar funeral rites (specifically for those without a body or those who died in exile) (non-canon, mentions of Avvar canon from DA wiki) 
> 
> We most often hear of sky burials when we speak of Avvar funeral rituals, however, there is another variation of a burial that remains nameless in Avvar culture. This type of funeral is only used for those who were exiled and later died respectfully and regained their Hold’s favor, or it is available for those who weren’t exiled, but died under poor circumstances. This funeral rite is often used in either case when a body isn’t present, so a proper burial cannot be completed. A sacrifice is used and painted with the deceased Avvar’s birth-hold’s colors, so that their spirit might be drawn to the corpse. Beneath the sacrifice, an Alamarri runic compass is drawn to help the spirit navigate to the corpse, and to gain the favor of gods the compass depicts. Compared to a normal funeral, there is no celebration after the funeral; it is a shameful way to be buried and so it is a much more solemn affair. Various songs, chants, and grieving ululations are used during this ritual, possibly as a way to express grief and a way to try to gain the attention of their gods. 
> 
> By doing this, the Avvar believe that the spirit will find the corpse and the Lady’s servants will find their way to the spirit and proxy body, and still might be able to find their way to the afterlife.


	28. heimstǫð dri

She squinted one eye while parsing the sentence aloud, stretching the consonants and vowels, in the quiet sanctum of the room they’d cleared for her. The balcony doors were in good condition, but she left them wide open to let the Frostback winds in. The dawn was still crisp and fresh - the wind carried with it the scent of pine, stone, and ice - and the clouds rolled overhead peacefully. She was far too high to hear the bustle of the castle, and the stone walls ensured sound was trapped easily, but she imagined Skyhold was as busy as it had been since the rites for the dead had been completed. 

It was as though the collective loss of Havenhold pushed all of them to face their limits and challenge them. 

Aslaug had felt the shift in herself like the changing of a season. The call to rejoin Lurkerhold had all but vanished upon losing Havenhold and discovering Skyhold, and with Hrathgur dead and gone, the path to acceptance was easier. Easier and, in a way, more painful. 

The people of Skyhold did not speak Alamarri, they did not offer sacrifices to the animal and nature gods, their celebrations were not held for the coming of winter, and they did not speak to their Maker and his Burning Woman the way augurs spoke to their Hold gods. The Avvar present would leave soon, she knew. They had been there to assist with the Breach and now that it was shut and the Lady was healed, they would leave. If they were lucky, the Avvar would consider allying with the Inquisition to battle Corypheus and his armies. She knew her people well, though. They may not ally with them. They were slow to trust outsiders, and would be reluctant to join forces with a group that had apparently been a part of the Chantry at one point. 

Skyhold would be home to one Avvar, as much as she could be considered one anymore. There was a homesickness in her that she wasn’t sure would ever completely leave her, but she could not feel it in herself to regret or mourn the decision. 

The history of the world littered the desk she had been given - all the stories and writings throughout the ages beyond the Frostback mountains was here, before her, at her fingertips. All she had to do was read their words, and she would know all she wanted. It was a powerful, heady thing. To know the vast history of a people, to see where their journeys had begun, and where they had ended, and who followed - Aslaug had been a good student in the history of the Avvar, the Alamarri and all its split clans, but she never realized how  _ little  _ she knew. The stories of her people had been the beginning and the end of her world. 

Now that her people included lowlanders - Fereldans, Orlesians, Antivans, Rivani, Dalish elves, and casteless dwarves and even Tevinters and qunari - she knew  _ nothing _ . A thane needed to know the various tribes that came together under a single Hold; needed to know their particular rituals and gods and their own history, and if she was to be a thane she needed to do the same. She would have preferred songs and tales spoken aloud across a fire with a tankard of dwarven ale in hand, but this world she was a part of now was too vast for that. 

Books, as distastefully as she had looked at them, held information that might take years to otherwise sing of. 

She couldn’t care less about the history of the Chantry for the time being, but she read through them because Cassandra; faithful Holdmate and steadfast woman placed so much faith in her Burning Woman. Leliana spoke of the Maker and his Bride with uncertainty, both faithful and doubtful. Aslaug knew of the Avvar stories of the Burning Woman and her Silent God, but she knew little of the way the sorry tale was told in the lowlands. 

They’d seen Maferath’s betrayal as worse than anything else that had happened in the struggle. Maferath was a cowardly villain made of envy and greed, counting Tevinter coins in the darkness like a dragon running claws over its hoard. Hating his bride and her god-husband, hating how people loved her so effortlessly. 

The Avvar had not seen him as a villain or a hero. He had bargained for the whole of the Alamarri and those that fought on their side, for the price of one woman. In some stories, she went willingly to the flame. Maferath’s destiny had been to be the doom of his woman, and it had been his doom that if he turned from his gods and looked only at the Maker, then he would be lost. 

There were other stories, far harder to find, but Leliana had deemed it important enough to slip another version of the Chant, marked passages with scraps of paper with finely written notes on them. The elf general Shartan who led the slaves from Tevinter, who rebelled, who was Andraste’s companion and confidante, who was betrayed, and who had been forgotten. 

Reading about him made her uneasy. 

The Chantry seemed keen to forget those that played an important part of its survival if they were not what was expected. If Shartan had been a villain of this legend, would he have been so easily cast away? Or would his name have survived the long years; an elven villain to cast a shadow over his descendents of the lowlands? 

Would she be forgotten as such? Aslaug was not so humble that she had never wished for a legend-mark, or a tale that could mention her exploits that would outlast her mortal body, but nor did she seek it. Glory-seekers met poor ends. But to do things that deserved stories and songs, and to be erased from history was...depressing. 

If they did tell of the Inquisition and the one they called Herald, would she still be named Aslaug Gundhilddotten? Would she still wear war paint, would she carry a spear and shield, would she be a mage, would she be Avvar? Or would they change her to fit the acceptable mold for their Chantry? And would her deeds live on, but not her reasons, not  _ her _ ? Or instead of a Herald, would only someone like Cassandra be mentioned in the stories? Was Shartan’s fate to be hers? Forgotten and forbidden, ungratefully removed from history? 

She took a long drink from the chipped clay cup at her side before focusing her attention back on her book. Her throat was beginning to burn from reading aloud for so long, but she had to learn the words and stories of her people. She skimmed over the passages of Shartan out of discomfort; the scholar debated what had truly happened to him and of his previous life. It was as though she could feel his ghost leaning over her, watching her navigate her new life as quickly as she could. 

Once she bored of the Chantry’s history after the death of Andraste, she took up a tome about the history of Ferelden that included drawings and maps. 

The raids of the Avvar were depicted in earlier writing as savages coming down from the mountains only to cause misery and sacrifice poor farmers to their dark, heretical gods. They stole women and children, made off with cattle and sheep, crops and anything of value before scorching the earth behind. A drawing of an Avvar man showed that he towered over a farmer, wielding a giant axe; he was hairy and wild with furs around his body and scars. His war paint was sloppy and poorly drawn. At his feet lay a bisected child, and with one hand he held a crying woman by the hair. The crops were on fire behind him. 

The Avvar, it said, were godless creatures who had turned so far from the Maker that He had cursed them to be ruled forever by baser urges, and to be of lesser intelligence, and so they worshipped false idols. More drawings of giant, ugly Avvar men dragging off beautiful lowlander women, consuming the flesh of children and men and their own fallen, shamans drawn mockingly wearing goatskin with feathers on their heads and in their mouths. Avvar women drawn with brutish features - large foreheads with jutting brows and wide jaws, hairy knuckles and underbites with crooked teeth. Stupid oafish creatures that the book detailed must have been where the myth of trolls began. 

The book slammed shut. 

Her jaw was tense and her brows met. She sucked on the inside of her teeth and closed her eyes. The book was old. It was unlikely they still thought that. It didn’t hurt any less to have the history of her people recorded as such, however. 

The light outside had turned a dark orange. She hadn’t realized so much time had passed. 

She breathed out through her nose and stood away from the desk, wandering over to the balcony. The air that breezed in was colder and the temperature was comfortable. Only in her leather cross-straps over her chest and a thin doeskin pair of breeches, she inhaled the scent the wind carried. Woodsmoke and meat - ram more than likely - onions and garlic. It was nearly suppertime. She cast another look at the books on her desk and the flickering candles before snuffing them out and heading down the steps to join the rest of her Hold for a meal. 

The smell of food got stronger the closer she got to the kitchens, and she saw that some people had set up on the floor, sitting in large circles and eating quietly. It looked to be bowls of thin broth, with bread and meat, and the side of cheese. Several people regarded her briefly while others followed her progress with wide eyes, but no one attempted to stop her or call out to her, which she was thankful for. 

The line for a meal extended out of the kitchen, down the steps and into the other half of the still mostly ruined courtyard, and she felt a brief annoyance that she hadn’t pulled herself away from the texts that were now making her eyes ache, but the cook caught sight of her and immediately busied herself with making a bowl for her. Aslaug ducked her head gratefully and accepted a clean scrap of cloth filled with bread and cheese. Two skewers of meat were offered to her and Aslaug tipped them into her bowl of broth. 

In the cooler outdoors, she saw more of Skyhold’s people enjoying the end of their day. Groups of men and women lazing about in the fading sunlight, playing cards or simply speaking to one another. In the far off corner, she saw the large group of collected Avvar roasting something over a spit. The younger warriors she had found in the Fallow Mire were already among them, possibly looking to join with a new Hold. 

She looked away from them and gnawed on a hunk of cheese idly, moving to a circle of people she recognized. Solas looked exhausted, drooping slightly over a bowl of broth balanced on his knees beside an equally weary Varric. Blackwall was trying to rid himself of breadcrumbs in his beard while Sera helped herself to his share of cheese. Across the fire, Iron Bull grinned at a giggling woman who passed him a second bowl with more food inside. Dorian and Felix sat side by side, quietly eating with a serious air. 

Aslaug sat down beside Solas and shifted until she was comfortable on the small bench. Solas blinked and regarded her with a brief tilt of his lips before looking down at his bowl, clearly unenthusiastic. Varric knocked the rim of his bowl with a short wooden spoon, frowning down into his food. Dorian and Felix remained mostly silent although Dorian treated her to a fleeting roguish smile. 

“Haven’t seen you around all day, boss. How’s it going?” Iron Bull broke the strange silence over the group with a relaxed tone. 

Aslaug dropped her bread whole into the broth before answering. “Alright, glad to be away from that bloody desk for a time.” She squinted up at him. 

His answering smirk was broad and showed the pointed tips of his teeth. “Not so happy sitting on your ass all day? Some people would kill to have your job,” he took a quick bite from a skewer. 

She gave him a flat stare. “I don’t call it a fulfilling day when all I’m doing is sitting up in a room reading.” 

Varric perked up then, face softening. “So that’s what you were up to,” he sounded mildly surprised. Solas had raised his eyebrows. 

She didn’t bother hiding her reaction and rolled her eyes. “It’s what I’m supposed to do, so says Leliana and Josephine. Not so much reading reports, right now though.” 

“What are you reading, if I might ask?” Solas’s polite tone cut to the heart of the matter and Aslaug felt a little inadequate to be speaking about reading things in common when everyone in this circle, presumably, read quite well. 

“History, mostly. Of the Chantry. Ferelden,” at the thought of the accounts of early Ferelden, her nose wrinkled. “Didn’t get very far in Ferelden.” 

“Oh?” Solas prompted. 

Iron Bull hmmed across the fire. “Bet I know why,” he muttered. 

“The earliest writings about my people - they painted us as no better than animals, monsters that came to steal women and children. Compared us to trolls,” she angrily bit into a small onion floating in the broth, swallowing it down with a chunk of roasted meat. 

Varric winced. “Well, opinions change, so maybe there’s one a little more recent around?” 

Iron Bull was already shaking his head. “Nah, I think I know the one you’re talking about, boss. That is the latest one.” Catching her glare, he shrugged. “I didn’t write it. But it hasn’t been updated in nearly three hundred or so years.” 

She sighed. “They were once descended from the same tribe as us, and they wrote  _ that  _ about us.”

“People are quick to judge without knowing the character or history of another person,” Blackwall said gently. He seemed focused on the conversation now that Sera had eaten half his dinner. 

“Their history  _ was  _ our history. We came from the northern unknown lands as one people; the Neromenians. The story goes that we left our homelands in search of...something. The tales are never very clear, but all humans were once one great tribe.” She set her bowl on the ground to continue her story. “The Neromenians followed a compass given to them - I don’t know what they called it, but the Avvar use it for rituals for our dead now. The Alamarri claim it solely as their own, but in truth it existed within the Neromenian tribe first - the Alamarri added it to it later when we came upon the gods within Ferelden but this was generations later. The history of the Neromenians is mostly lost to the Alamarri, but the last true tribe remained in Tevinter until it was absorbed by the Tevinter tribe of that time.”

“It wasn’t peaceful by our reckoning. We had the assistance of the dwarves at the time as well, and it was partially why we were so advanced,” Dorian added. She nodded. “And you know, Tevinter has its own theories, but why did the Neromenians leave...from wherever they came from? From an Avvar perspective.” 

She picked her bowl up with a hum. “The stories aren’t clear,” she repeated. “Some Holds believe that the lands of the north were dying and the Neromenians were forced to leave in search of a new home. Others believe that the gods of those lands had abandoned them and so they went searching for new ones.” She finished off her broth and meat, settling on the last piece of cheese she’d been given. 

“Interesting,” Dorian murmured. “What do you believe? Or your hold?” 

“My Hold is  _ Skyhold _ , now. But my birth-hold believed what the god of the lost had told us. Distant lands called to the Neromenians, convinced them to follow the compass given to them by an unknown god, to cross an ocean and come to the south.” She wiped her hands on her breeches and wished she’d have thought to grab an ale. 

Sera groaned and rolled up to her feet, stalking away from the group with her bowl in hand. Blackwall sighed and dusted himself off, nodding in her direction and excusing himself after Sera.

“Called?” Solas asked, eyes no longer tired but alert. 

“Mm. A call from the deep, deeper than the bottom of the oceans, had found the first tribe and they answered the call.” 

“But why? Why leave your homeland if it was perfectly fine to follow some call? A spirit, perhaps?” Dorian mused aloud. 

“Or that thing that gave them that compass,” Varric muttered a little darkly. 

Aslaug pointed at Varric approvingly. “The gods of the Neromenians in our forgotten homeland are not known to us, if they even had gods then. The one that gave them the compass and called to them might have been their first.” 

“So...just making all of them pack up and leave, what exactly was the point?” Dorian leaned forward, firmly intrigued by the conversation’s turn. 

She chewed thoughtfully. “Maybe it wanted worshippers, maybe it was lonely, I don’t know. No one does.” 

Dorian sighed. “Unfortunate, so much of the Neromenian history was completely lost. After Tevinter absorbed the remaining tribes left, most of the language and legends were discarded.” 

“It happens with conquerors,” Solas said softly. “They remove the history of others to ensure that their own prevails throughout time. A quiet, malicious genocide.” 

“Well, Tevinter has practice with that,” Iron Bull drawled. Dorian gave him a sour look. 

“Yes, Tevinter has its - malpractices and dark past, but not all of us want to continue on that path. Don’t the qunari have their own downfalls, the treatment of mages, perhaps? The utter lack of free will to do as they wish?” he snapped. 

Iron Bull groaned, “Stop, you’ll make me lose my appetite.” 

“And the Avvar, to my knowledge, still raid Ferelden and were once known as child thieves,” Dorian added.

Aslaug clucked her tongue and nodded thoughtfully, unsurprised. “Yes.” 

Felix blinked up at her. “Yes? That’s it? No defense?” 

“No? I know what my people did, and still do. We raided Ferelden in greater numbers and were once more closely unified than we are today. My ancestors thrived in battle - seeking only those who could defend themselves and leaving those who begged alone. In times of hardship, they took farm animals, food, tools, weapons and in the event that a Hold didn’t have enough children or new blood, would take children. Orzammar used to send casteless children meant for the Deep Roads to the surface. The Holds would take orphans from Dalish clans too.” She squinted. “Did you want me to defend what the truth is?” 

Dorian sputtered, “Well I assumed you would being that it isn’t exactly a positive aspect of your culture.” 

“Lurkerhold didn’t often participate in raids to the lowlands. Our Hold was positioned where the wealth of the Frostbacks is, our - their summer camp was the envy of the others. Most Holds don’t target farmers except for food - they often go towards guards or army posts. The purpose of a raid is either for supplies or for the will of the gods. Gods of combat urge fighting, so there’s arenas, but playfighting only does so much and no one has any want to fight the helpless or cause senseless slaughter. Such ilk is the whisper of corrupt gods.” She stretched and felt her back pop satisfyingly. 

“The purpose of raids is specifically to attract the attention of certain spirits and form alliances with them?” Solas wondered aloud. 

Aslaug paused. “Isn’t that what I said?” 

He coughed. “Yes, my apologies.” 

A burst of warm fondness sprung from her breast. He cleared his throat pointedly when she didn’t immediately continue. “Hm?” 

“You were speaking about Avvar raids and spirits and it was all very fascinating until someone distracted you,” Dorian said helpfully. 

“Oh. Well, the raids are far less frequent than they once had been. The Avvar are a dying people, and we know it,” she said. 

“If you know then why raid? Why not join with the rest of Ferelden or…” he shrugged. 

“We belong to the Frostbacks, not to a king. We are born of winter and the mountains and we will die as such, but we will not die quietly.” She leaned back on her palms. “And we are  _ not  _ Fereldan.” 

“And do you have a prophecy for that, as well? A myth of some sort?” he ran a careful finger along the clean line of his moustache. 

He was mocking her, slightly, although his curiosity was sincere. “When the World-Eater awakens again to this world, the sky will fall and break open the mountains.” It was not a subject she was completely comfortable speaking about. 

“World-Eater? Oh that sounds fun. Did your people possibly predict Corypheus?” 

She scowled. “No, you ass. He wishes to be a god. The World-Eater has always been a god. He is not a kind god, nor does he care for things we could ever understand” she stopped suddenly and took a breath. “Let us speak of something else. He is not...he is not something to be spoken of so lightly.” 

Felix cocked his head at her. “Do your people fear him?” 

Varric rose a brow. She had breached the subject of the World-Eater once with him when she’d been in her cups, but only the most outlandish myths of him. “He is the beginning and the end. A cycle that will continue for an eternity, would that not frighten you?” she responded finally. 

“The beginning and the end of what?” Solas asked, frown teasing at the corner of his mouth as he gazed into the fire. 

Had anyone else asked her that question, she would have refused to answer. It was difficult to deny Solas, at this point. “The world. He made it, and will end it again one day, and he will make a new one from the ashes to end, one day,” she said shortly. “Let us speak of something else,” she urged. 

“Well, uh, I do have some news,” Varric shifted in place. He sighed gustily. “It’s not...good news. News I need to share with the advisors, definitely and you need to know it. It’s just - well, shit. We need to deal with it, I know, but you’ve already got a lot on your place. I was hoping to let you get your bearings before dropping this on you.” 

Solas met her eyes and they both regarded Varric with narrowed eyes. “Oh? More bad news?” she asked. 

“If it was so urgent, it would have been better to have come forward with it sooner, Master Tethras,” Solas said warily. 

Varric held up his hands. “My contacts just got back to me. I needed to make sure this wasn’t a false lead before I said anything. Not mention getting in touch with...my other contact wasn’t easy.” 

“Secrecy,” she said, unimpressed. 

The dwarf seemed to deflate a little. “It was necessary, otherwise I wouldn’t be keeping secrets, but I had my word to keep, you know?” he tried for a smile, but her wintry scrutiny made that nearly impossible. “I swear, it’ll all come out. And I’m not meaning to keep secrets here, alright?” 

“We will speak of this tomorrow, with the war council. I have no wish to sour my supper,” she waved a hand at him. 

Iron Bull observed her with his single eye, oddly silent and still for such a large man. “Well, I’m gonna go drink with the boys. You’re all welcome to join, but all the excitement made me thirsty.” 

Varric, with one last glance her way, followed Iron Bull and Dorian quirked a brow at her, then Solas, before leaving with a twist of his wrist in farewell. 

Felix hesitated before he left to the healing tents. “Good night, Herald.”

“Be well,” she returned. Left alone with him, she was free to focus on Solas as she had been wont to do since his earlier comment. The dark color of the setting sun lit his profile in warm colors, bringing him to life and drawing her attention to the slope of his nose, the high points of his cheeks and the curve of his eyes. 

“You are staring,” he said softly. 

Her eyes dropped immediately, thinking he was uncomfortable. “I don’t know how they court in the lowlands yet - or even how you want to be courted,” she said instead. 

His mouth parted briefly, and she thought she nearly saw his mouth twitch into a smile. “I...do not believe I gave permission to be courted as of yet.” 

She slouched. “You asked for time to consider me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try.” 

He gave her a dry look. “Bribery?” 

“You’d consider wooing and gift-giving bribery?” 

“If its purpose was to convince me of your desires, then yes,” his voice was lighter, a little playful like the tail of a fox twitching above spring grasses. 

“Well,” and she smiled as she spoke, “you should tell me what you like. Should...I hunt furs for you? Gather materials to make you a staff? Find honeycomb for you?” she was unable to hold back the twisting, giddy feeling of even being allowed this much with him. Regardless if he meant it in jest and was only humoring her, she could bask in this. 

Her plying startled a laugh from him that he quickly smothered with a snort. She delighted in it. “Oh? I don’t believe you’ll need to do quite that much,” he said gently. “Gift-giving is a large part of courtship for numerous cultures, but I find that it’s rather one sided. Oftentimes, it seems as though there’s a lack of balance between the receiver and the giver.” 

She hummed. “Sometimes people are just better at giving or receiving than others. If they’re happy that way, is it so bad?” 

“It can be, if they aren’t careful,” his smile was gone and she nearly remarked on its loss aloud, but then his eyes were on her and she was frozen in place, caught in the pull of him. “But, you are correct; there are some aspects of people and relationships that are not so easily defined or changed. How do the Avvar approach courtship?” 

She blinked languidly. “We tell someone we find them attractive, and they say yes or no. If they say yes, then they may tell you to court them first. It isn’t like that down here.” 

He chuckled again. “No, it isn’t.” His merriment from earlier was already leaving him, and a solemn shadow was casting over him again. She wanted to cherish this moment, and all others like it, for as long as she could. There was a long road ahead of her and though she wished he would allow her to set herself at his feet, she knew it was just as likely he would kindly reject her again. 

“Solas, will you tell me something of your journeys? Across Thedas or within the land of dreams?” 

“Ah, what would you like to know?” he sounded interested again. 

Anything, anything at all to keep him comfortable and close and allow her this much, in whatever measure he thought to give her. “Something old,” she said. 

“I dreamed of the city of Barindur…” he began and she relaxed, wholly lulled by his presence and voice. He spoke of a lost city, a branch from the Neromenian tribe, buried beneath ash. His eyes were on the walls around them, every so often lifting to the darkening sky, and so she was free to watch him as she pleased. He likely knew she was, but she appreciated that he allowed her to do as she wished, so she was careful not to press him. 

There was an outcropping of rocks not far from Lurkerhold she had often climbed when she had been younger. The stars had seemed closer there; almost close enough to touch and gods knew she had  _ tried.  _ She’d wanted to close her fist around one and thought that when she would open it again she might see a speck of a star glinting up at her like a sliver of crystal. Stars couldn’t be caught like fish, couldn’t be held like a gold coin; jealously and preciously. As she’d aged, she’d given up on catching a star to hoard for herself and instead went there to relish the light of the stars and the silence of the area. 

He spoke well into the night and mostly dominated the conversation, although she asked questions and helpfully added her own opinions and thoughts of his dream-wandering. It didn’t hurt to exist like this around him; he didn’t burn like the sun or draw attention as the moons did but the constant, soft light he exuded that she seemed unable to look away from kept her from leaving. 

This was a familiar feeling for her. If this was all that came of her wants, and all Solas wished, she would treasure it as she had grown to treasure the stars she’d been unable to touch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex Entry: Avvar & books
> 
> The Avvar do not care for books on the whole, and the reason is strangely specific. While the Avvar pride themselves on learning how to speak other languages, they do not have a developed written system and do not learn written language from other cultures. The idea seems rather ludicrous from a culture that prides itself on learning spoken languages, but to the Avvar the dislike of books comes from actually respecting the stories and information passed down. To see it written in books, often mass produced, is seen as insulting and an insult to the one who wishes to “tell a story” - “skalds” or storytellers are held in high regard and praised for essentially keeping the history of the Avvar and sharing it.


	29. heimstǫð por

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, leaving kudos, and comments, please enjoy!

Aslaug took a swig from her tankard. The bitter bite of dwarven ale was a luxury, and she was certain she’d need it since it seemed that his news was making him anxious.

Varric tipped his own drink back before setting it down slowly. “So, Herald,” she frowned at the strangely formal title, “we’ve got some things to talk about. First of all, I sent word to some contacts of mine and they only just got back to be before...everything that happened in Haven. The Temple of Sacred Ashes had red lyrium popping up all over the place, and it wasn’t - it wasn’t like it had been there for a long time. It was fresh.” He steepled his fingers and leaned on his elbows. “And I heard about people trading it to templars recently through the grapevine. Remember when we were in the Hinterlands a while back and we found that old carta campsite? The little ledger book had dates, shipment weights, prices, places - there’s a trade business going on and these people are using red lyrium.”

She exhaled swiftly. Lyrium that drove people to madness. She had heard the tales of Kirkwall as much as anyone else, but knew precious little of the details. “How...how many shipments, where are they?”

He sat back with a tired expression. “So far my people found a quarry in this place called Emprise du Lion. They wouldn’t have even known it existed but there’s a mining town nearby and a lot of people have gone missing. A chevalier who used to supply one of my contacts with information is gone, just vanished,” he snapped his fingers. “And there’s a thaig called Valammar in the Hinterlands not far from where we found that campsite. I’ve been hearing about some carta movement in there. So I’m expecting to find red lyrium mines down there too.” He rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “This isn’t really something we can ignore.”

She downed more of her ale. “No, it isn’t. We’ll gather a party and head out that way as soon as we can.”

“Yeah, just let me know when you want to head out. My Valammar contact will be waiting, so I’ll need to go with you. Otherwise she’d just head to ground if she doesn’t see me,” he said slightly apologetically.

Aslaug poured herself more ale from one of the small barrels a dwarven trader had gifted her in exchange for the obsidian hunting knife she’d carved. She poured more for Varric as well. “You had more to say,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, so...about that.” He took a drink. She waited for him to continue. “The person I said I had to get in touch with about Corypheus? Well she got back to me. She’s heading this way.” Varric seemed to be reading her expression for something. She gestured for him to continue with some amount of impatience. “A while back, Hawke and I had a...situation with Corypheus. He was imprisoned, but he controlled the carta down there somehow. We killed him - I know what dead people look like and he was it. Dead, full stop. I don’t know why the Grey Wardens had him locked up - was it because they couldn’t kill him? That’s a cheery thought,” and he drank deeply.

She let out a slow exhale, pressed her fingertips to her temple. “Do you know what he is? How did the Grey Wardens come to find him - how were they able to imprison him?”

She had never heard of a darkspawn that could speak before.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I don’t know. But Hawke’s heading this way. She got in touch with an old friend who might know more. It might be a dead end, but there’s something going on with the Wardens - so far the only one sighted was Blackwall but we haven’t heard so much as a peep out of the rest of them. I thought they paid more attention to the end of the world, at least just as a general rule.”

“Hawke,” she said flatly, “Champion of Kirkwall Hawke. The Hawke Cassandra asked you to find.”

He coughed into his fist. “One and the same.”

“Hm,” she folded her arms across her chest. “I will not be the one to tell her who you found. I like my nose where it is.”

Varric shot her a dirty look. “You could maybe take less enjoyment out of this,” he grumbled.

“I could,” she said with good humor, “but I won’t.” She gave a short chuckle at his loud groan. “When will Hawke be arriving?”

He shrugged. “She took a detour to meet up with her friend, so another few weeks before she shows her face here.”

She clucked her tongue. “We need to tell the advisors, and it means you need to send word to your friend that we will meet them in Valammar soon. You'll have to assemble the group yourself - you know more about what we may be heading into more than I will. I trust you'd know better than me what companions would be best.”

“Yeah, alright,” he finished his ale. “How soon?”

“I want to leave for Valammar in two day’s time.” At Varric’s surprised reaction, she continued, “If Corypheus’s forces are moving red lyrium from a thaig - that means there are exits and entrances, secret places underground, that we may not know of. Not to mention that quarry you found.”

“No, I mean it’s good you’re taking this seriously, but it just seems a little fast? You’re just taking my word for it?”

“We fought the red templars, Varric. I have no wish to give Corypheus more bodies to throw into his army. He’s powerful enough. I want these supply lines _gone_ ,” she slashed a hand through the air.

“I hear you,” he muttered. “You know when I told Hawke to come with me to look for treasure I never thought this would happen. All of this.”

She poured him more ale. “I know. If you had known, what would you have done?”

“Blown the damn thaig up, set it on fire. Hell I don’t know. All I know is that it should’ve stayed forgotten.” He stared at the reflection in his ale. “What a mess.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it briefly. “We’ll make it right. You being here means you want that just the same.”

“I’ll drink to that,” he smiled back crookedly and knocked the rim of his tankard against hers lightly in a toast.

 

…

 

“Hawke,” Cullen repeated for the third time. He seemed to be begging her with his entire being that this was a joke she was playing on him. “Hawke is coming here. Herself. To Skyhold.”

Leliana hid a smile behind a gloved hand, eyes dancing. Josephine had broken the tip of her quill when Aslaug had confirmed her announcement of Hawke’s inevitable arrival. Her travel plans to Valammar and Varric’s extensive search for red lyrium hadn’t caught their attention.

She cocked her hip and crossed her arms over her midriff. “Yes. She is coming to Skyhold. I won’t repeat myself forever, Commander.”

His hand immediately went up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and he shook his head as if denying the possibility of Hawke coming to Skyhold would be enough to ward her away. “When? So we might have some time to prepare?”

“Varric said a few weeks or so. Enough time to make a trip to Valammar and not keep her waiting for long, if she gets here before we get back.” She tapped on the map stretched on the enormous war table. A gift from Madame Vivienne after the last map had suffered burns in Havenhold. “He also mentioned there’s some kind of red lyrium quarry in Emprise du Lion. If Varric’s friend is right, then Valammar is another mine for it. I want it gone. I want to know of all the other mining sites for this lyrium, and I want to know who is trading with it. Corypheus proved that he has the advantage at Havenhold. We were lucky enough that he underestimated us. He won’t do it again.”

“How is it possible that this has spread so quickly?” Leliana murmured, eyes tracking over the map. “Can Varric trace its origins? Was his route to the Deep Roads in Kirkwall copied?”

“And Samson,” Cullen spat. “Samson would have known Hawke went there and found that damned idol. He could have bribed someone, could have found out where that thaig was somehow…”

“Samson was a beggar in Kirkwall, he wouldn’t have had the resources to do so,” Leliana pointed out.

“The Champion was once a penniless refugee,” Josephine said.

“We’ll find out more after we investigate Valammar,” Aslaug shut the vein of conversation down. “For now, Leliana, Varric’s people found that other quarry. He said people were disappearing.”

She nodded shortly. “I’ll have my agents look into it.”

Josephine cleared her throat. “There is also the matter of the future you said you traveled to. The fall of the Orlesian empire, an army of demons.”

“We don’t know how they get the bloody demon army, but our soldiers are still watching areas of previous rift activity or suspicious arms movements. Nothing so far. Our best bet is a mass possession in the venatori ranks,” Cullen said.

“If the Orlesian Empire falls that leaves Ferelden, which is still recovering from the Blight, wide open for attack. We cannot let the Empire fall if we are to triumph against the Elder One,” Josephine hurried to say. “If the Empress is assassinated it will be chaos; a vacuum of power we wouldn’t be able to stave off.”

“Right,” Aslaug muttered. “Send her a warning.”

“Not good enough. Empress Celene gets threats against her life on a daily basis; she would have no reason to take any further precautions for another warning,” Leliana said.

“Of course she does,” Cullen rolled his eyes. “Then shouldn’t the Herald warn her in person? Orlesians like secret meetings, I assume.”

“No, we must be careful with the timing in this. One mistake and we may lose any credibility we’ve won so far. The Court is unforgiving. They might consider it a pretense.” Josephine waved his suggestion away. “But, if there was to be an assassination attempt on the Empress, I would wager it would take place during the annual Grand Masquerade in Halamshiral.”

“Oh for - ” Cullen cut himself off and ran a hand through his hair.

“A perfect place for an assassin to hide and wait until Celene was at her most vulnerable,” she insisted. “Orlesian Balls always have some scandal or another taking place - infidelity, fraud, murder - it is almost expected for an assassin or a poisoning attempt. But according to that terrible future the Herald saw, they will actually succeed.”

“You already sent off for invitations, didn’t you Josie?” Leliana asked rhetorically.

“I reached out to Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons, actually. She’s opposed to the civil war the Empire is currently embroiled in. She seeks an end to conflict as much as we do; and we need a united Orlais in order to oppose Corypheus and his forces - however many they may number as of yet. Grand Duke Gaspard has also expressed interest in meeting with the Herald. I imagine he seeks to perhaps shock the Court if it appears he has gained favor with the Inquisition. For the sake of appearances, I would advise against choosing to accept the Duke’s personal invitation. At least Florianne is neutral in this conflict; we do not wish to worsen things in Orlais if we can help it.” Josephine fiddled with her broken quill. “There will also be some, ah, culturally sensitive things I will need to discuss with the Herald until then. We have time, of course.”

“Not time enough. There will be players who have been in the Game for years - anyone who hasn’t had experience in the Court will subject to the worst of it,” Leliana argued. “And the Herald will not have time to learn everything she needs to know.”

“The Game?” Cullen sputtered. “As if there - there isn’t a blighted magister walking around with a dragon and an army of psychopaths?”

“Careful, Commander. Your Fereldan is showing,” Leliana remarked nonchalantly. “And the Game isn’t something to be approached lightly. We play to the death.”

Aslaug exhaled loudly and pointedly at that, trying to stave off the ache in her tense jaw.

Josephine cleared her throat. “There will be subjects I can coach you on. The primary objective, is of course, to prevent Celene’s assassination but we can also take advantage of the setting to procure allies, make connections. It is imperative that you are seen as the leader of the Inquisition.”

Aslaug squinted one eye at Josephine. “Really.”

“Really,” Josephine said encouragingly, a small smile on her face. “We should begin as soon as possible, perhaps tonight?”

“Yes, later, but there are other matters to attend,” Leliana said blithely. “Varric already came to me about his concerns about the ledger he found in the Hinterlands. I’ve sent my best agent to the field to go hunting for a contact I made during the Blight. She may be able to help us counteract the effects of the red lyrium, specifically that armor Samson was seen wearing. As for the Grey Wardens...as of yet, Blackwall has not seen any, and he must have been away from any fort for a long while as all of his information is rather old. I sent word to Vigil’s Keep in Amaranthine so hopefully I will get a reply back soon.”

“Vigil’s Keep? But I thought you couldn’t find the Hero of Ferelden, Leliana?” Josephine’s surprise was demonstrated by her expression.

“I don’t know where he is. But he has friends in Vigil’s Keep, and they may be able to help us solve this puzzle of missing Wardens,” the spymaster returned shortly.

Cullen shifted his weight. “Where do you think the Hero went? We could use his help against a darkspawn magister. He killed an archdemon already. And shouldn’t the Wardens be more concerned about a blighted magister? Particularly one who may have been the first of all darkspawn.”

Leliana looked up sharply. “The Warden-Commander did his duties and then some. There must be a reason for his absence now; it could not have been out of apathy. That is not the man I knew. But there were...rumors of what he faced while in Amaranthine. Rumors that seem to bear some similarities to what we are facing and I can’t ignore that. But no, Commander, I don’t know where he went. After repelling the darkspawn siege against Vigil’s Keep...there was talk that he went on the hunt. After a witch. The trail ends there, unfortunately.”

“Similarities?” Aslaug asked.

“Of a creature he faced that shared some likeness to Corypheus. Possibly. I cannot be certain, not until I receive a reply,” she explained.

Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose. “Meanwhile, at least, we have workers pouring in to assist rebuilding Skyhold.”

Josephine nodded. “There have also been a number of donations - more in the way of supplies and not gold, of course - sent to the Inquisition. Merchants will be unloading carts within several days. Our scouts and soldiers were already sent to make sure they had a somewhat safe passage.”

“My soldiers cleared the way now, but merchants can’t use that route forever. Wagons and oxen aren’t meant to be mired in constant snow like this.” Cullen tapped on the map.

“We need roads, Commander,” Josephine interjected.

“After the disaster at Haven, we need our soldiers focusing on training,” he frowned.

“Of course, but can we neglect roads to Skyhold? We need supplies.”

He sighed but nodded. “Of course Lady Montilyet. I’ll make a roster for duty rotations; they can take turns paving the way and with upkeep.”

“Thank you. The merchants are being generous to us for now; I doubt they will remain so for long.” She made to write on her parchment, but seemed to once again be aware of her broken quill when she let out a soft sigh.

They reached a lull in the discussion and Aslaug made to consider their talks done, but she caught the brief glance between Leliana and Josephine, the tautness around Cullen’s jaw.

“What?”

“There is the matter of training,” Josephine began, voice somehow delicate and placating. “As the mages are now the Inquisition’s allies, there are quite a lot of specializations that have been made available to you.”

“And the Chantry is now slowly being divided since the attack on Haven and the fact that you, an Avvar mage, closed the Breach. They are concerned that you were not taught magic,” Leliana interrupted.

“I was taught. I’ve been taught since I first came into my magic,” she said uninterestedly.

“Yes, by the Avvar, who have methods that seem to be very extensive and culturally rich -” Josephine tried again.

“They do not trust magic taught beyond Circle walls, or outside of the accepted schools of magic,” Leliana cut in again. Her eyes told the story in truth: _They do not trust magic they have not carefully studied and deemed acceptable_.

The thought of a collar being slipped over her neck was beyond insulting; it made her teeth grind and she heard her blood rushing in her ears. But they needed the Chantry’s support - her people needed the Chantry, their priestesses and priests, their Burning Woman and their silent god.

“Fine,” she said. She kept her eyes on the map in front of her. “Send for your teachers, I’ll choose among them.” Hrathgur wouldn’t have liked his teachings being questioned, but he would have called her a fool to turn down knowledge beyond their own. He would have advised her on what knowledge was acceptable, what wouldn’t question her heritage - but he wasn’t here. She could only trust herself to preserve the pieces of her that the Chantry bargained with in return for their support of her people. “Are we done for today? You said you had topics to discuss with me,” she addressed Josephine.

“Yes, and it would be best if we were afforded some privacy. This may take some time,” the ambassador added.

Aslaug kept herself from sighing aloud before she followed Josephine from the war room with a brief nod directed at Leliana and Cullen.

Josephine walked briskly in front of Aslaug and spoke softly as she led the way to her office. “The Court...honestly, I would rather have avoided this so soon, but I can stall inquiries until the Annual Winter Ball. Still, in the midst of the rest of the tasks before you, the preparations required, I will be honest, Herald, this is not ideal.”

“For anyone,” Aslaug quipped darkly.

Josephine shot her a small smile over her shoulder. “Quite.” She struggled a little with the door, leaning her rather inconsiderable weight against it until it creaked open. “My, I hope the workers arrive soon. We direly need carpenters and masons here, Your Worship - ah, Lady Aslaug.” She sat on a squashy looking high backed chair trimmed in gold paint that had seen kinder days. She folded her hands in front of her and nodded politely at the wooden chair across of her.

Aslaug sunk into it, feeling the scratchy, itching feeling of restlessness crawl under her skin. She wasn’t used to so much sitting around, standing and talking, talking, without any interruption of action. “You said we had things to discuss. Things you could trust me to speak about in front of the lowland - the Orlesians.” She sent Josephine a pointed look, arched a brow.

Josephine winced delicately. “Forgive my words, I met no offense of course. It is only that...even among those more accustomed to the Court can find the experience trying, if you will. You are still learning much of the culture beyond your homelands, and so I can only imagine this will be rather stressful for you.”

Aslaug waved her sentiment away. “I understand the need to look competent in front of allies well enough, Josephine. But I’d ask to not to be treated as a child in this matter.” She pursed her lips. “I will try to do right by the Inquisition and my people, but I will not hide where I have come from or who I am.”

Josephine went quiet. “I understand, Lady Aslaug. To your credit, you are right. We cannot present you in a false light - and nor should we. It would sow discontent and distrustfulness among the masses and the people to whom we look to be our allies.”

Aslaug nodded. “And who would trust a woman who cannot say which face is her own.”

Josephine laughed suddenly, a pleasant high sound. “There are many, many faces in Orlais I am afraid.”  

 

…

 

She’d manage to wheedle Josephine into drinking with her during her lessons about Orlais. Social mores, mostly, and safe topics she could speak to others about. She still required lessons on how to appropriately excuse herself from a conversation in Orlais since undoubtedly, Josephine had added in a slurred voice with a goblet raised high, someone would ask questions she would need to avoid answering in their entirety.

She knew enough about Orlesians to know they liked stories - she could share her own about the frozen places they never dared to approach, the wild places of the world that held all the wild things that prowled in unseen borders. Josephine had lent her a copy of Orlesian culture and the arts which was, “Outdated, perhaps, but nonetheless it does hold some nuggets of truth to it.”

It also included Orlesian recipes. Aslaug had been excited over that prospect upon looking at the complex appearance of some of the dishes, until she read the ingredients patiently. A promising dish called the ‘Nug-Nug’ had been elegantly shaped to look like a nug in a burrow was a falsehood. There was no nug in it. Just egg whites, sugar, and cream, and chocolate and candied fruits - where were the egg yolks? And why would anyone roll fruit around in more sugar? They were plenty sweet on their own.

She skimmed over several others looking for the suppers, for the meat, and the bread, and the stews - there were details of fine cuts of druffalo, of wild oxen, the sweet dark meat of halla, swans, but none of the recipes seemed to describe what was done to the organs, the bones, and feet.

She found out from the cook in the kitchens when she went to collect a thick mushroom soup and bread and a fresh hunk of cheese, that these things were thrown away.

Josephine had described the heart of Orlais as a grand place of opulence and extravagance. Aslaug hadn’t realized that meant it was a place of wastefulness.

“I see you’ve taken it upon yourself to become further acquainted with Orlais. Lady Montilyet’s doing, I would presume?”

She hadn’t heard his approach and her head jerked up from the book balanced precariously on her thigh while she held her soup above her other one. Solas stood several paces away, head canted down to observe her and the book. His arms were behind him.

“Mm, apparently I’m to go to this Winter Ball come time for it,” she said and shut the book with a snap.

Solas seemed overall expectant of such an outcome but the slightly slow drawl of his tone when he spoke made her wonder if he was imagining the worst possible outcome. It was rather fair, in all honesty, if they were as bad as her advisors claimed.

“I see,” he began slowly, “And you feel comfortable with such an arrangement? Although I suppose there is little choice in the matter considering what you saw in that distant future.” There was an impression there, hung in the air like spiderwebs just barely visible in the sunlight. Curiosity held by a leash of control, tugging for slack.

He hadn’t wanted to hear more of it earlier, so she thought to remain quiet on it unless he asked it of her. It was a strange burden, to be shown the true depth of failure and misery that the world could hold before it ever happened, one that only the Tevinter mage Dorian understood.

“Yes,” she shuffled over on the bench and jutted her chin at it. “Sit, I can eat and talk.”

Solas stood for two breaths longer before finally settling himself from her. He kept himself further from her than before but his posture was relaxed. “You’ve made an effort to bridge the gap between yourself and the other cultures you’re unfamiliar with,” he commented softly.

“I have to,” she sighed through her nose and gnawed on a bite of bread thoughtfully. “I have so much to learn, all of my people come from different places, believe in different things...know different things. I am a poor thane as of now, if that is to be my role here.”

He was silent, but the air was once again ripe with that heavy fruit of intent. She waited. She had learned that pushing Solas was not often the best way to get an answer, but patience was, or asking other questions. “In truth, then, you’ve come to consider these people yours now? Or perhaps it was the Nightingale’s way to assure the devotion of the masses? I would suggest Lady Montilyet but I believe she would have been less transparent about it.” His tone had twisted suddenly near the end, like the rearing head of a serpent.

She sat up straight, slightly offended. “They are mine because I choose to be amongst them now. We share a Hold, we’ve shared loss and failure and victory over that thing that wishes to be a god. It is not - I am no shadow puppet, formed by someone else’s fingers.” She frowned at him. “Why would you say such a thing?” Solas rarely showed he had bite unless it was for good reason, but she couldn’t pick out what would have made him so annoyed.

His mouth opened then closed in a sigh, and his blink was slow. “It is...forgive my words. You did not deserve that.”

“No, I didn’t.” She watched the corner of his eye tighten then release. “So why treat me as though I’ve done something terrible?”

Solas’s hands flattened on his thighs and he took a long moment to respond, long enough that Aslaug nearly asked again with more heat. “I didn’t doubt your sincerity, but it is a rather surprising commitment to simply pledge yourself to another nation.”

She wrinkled her nose as though she’d caught an unpleasant smell. “I’m not pledging myself to another nation. I belong to no king or Empress or banner. I will always belong to the Frostbacks, but now I belong to the lowlands too and that means that some things must change.” She tried not to grit her teeth, still felt the snap of anger in her throat. “And they are my people because we all belong to the Inquisition, or what may come after it. We’re Skyhold’s people, now, I suppose.”

“I see,” he said softly. “I did not mean to take that tone with you, it is only that history calls back to those who used the love of a people for their own benefit, and it has always ended in disaster. I doubted the intentions of the Inquisition’s advisors; they have not looked upon your culture with a fair amount of esteem.”

He was sincere in his apology, even though he himself had seemed to deflate. He answered her question and it was enough for them to silently agree on letting the argument go, as Solas was wont to run off and ignore the tension as he had in the Fallow Mire.

It was a strange thing though. To look him in the eye as he apologized for speaking poorly to her, and know that he meant it, but still feel as though she’d caught him in a lie.


	30. heimstǫð paif

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for reading and enjoying, whether you leave/have left kudos or comments.

She came to her in the early gray hours of the morning.

Aslaug washed the mixture of oil and grime from her strigil with the pail of hot water at her side as she balanced on the lip of the large stone tub in the back of the room she had been afforded. She was in the middle of scraping her body with a small vial of embrium oil she had bartered for several days past when her door closed.

“Pardon the intrusion, Herald,” Leliana said, not appearing at all disturbed by the appearance of the small stone hand axe in Aslaug’s hand. “But I was hoping we might talk before your expedition later.” She folded her hands in front of her, eyes on the open balcony to give the Avvar woman privacy.

Her nudity was not her concern; the silence with which Leliana had invaded her room was. “Talk about what?” she’d dropped her scraping tool in the murky pail in her haste to grab her hand axe. With a vile Avvar oath, she searched for her scraper. A line of red appeared across her chest - although her strigil was dull, she had moved too quickly and with too much force, and had cut herself with it when she’d dropped it.

“You, more specifically, you and the Inquisition.” Leliana’s response was soft and Aslaug had to lean further out from the bathing area to hear her. “Surely you must be aware that the Inquisition has changed after Haven, it is still changing even now. You have changed - whether you’ve wanted to or not. Corypheus has ensured that.”

Aslaug sloshed water over her shoulders and wiped at her chest, but slowed. “Changed how?” She didn’t know which she meant.

“The Inquisition’s sights are no longer solely on the Breach; the sky is scarred, but sealed. Now, we must turn to other things; the Inquisition must grow to meet the threats against the world for if it does not, then all is lost, no?”

The question was a lead, and Aslaug ignored it though it set her teeth on edge. “And all these things rest on the shoulders of the Inquisition?” It wasn’t a question, not really.

“On you,” Leliana corrected. “The Inquisition must have a leader, and you have directed most of our course of actions, so it stands that you are already our leader.”

“Skyhold’s thane? I know that -”

“Not a thane, in truth. The Inquisition has the potential to be an organization that operates through Ferelden and Orlais. It is a fluid, growing operation that has the potential to reach even Antiva and Rivain,” Leliana impassioned.

A chill crawled across Aslaug’s skin. She could have blamed it on the breeze entering through the open balcony, but it was not cold enough to even for her to even register. “And will we stretch across all the seas?” she asked, a hint of unease in her voice. She had stopped any attempt in finishing her bath.

Leliana paused for a long moment. “What do you mean?”

Aslaug hesitated, unsure she should have spoken at all about it, but the words were out and it would do little good to simply avoid it. Tales of the gods of another people were just that to many; stories that held no weight in their world. It would mean nothing to Leliana. There would be no hint of danger in the air like the scent of lightning before the storm. “Stornaðra, the Great Serpent. She lives beneath all of the seas and oceans, she slumbers curled up at the bottom. She gave birth to all the sea serpents that hunt the giant eels, and the sharks, the whales.” She found the effort to move again as she spoke.

“Oh? And how do you know she’s asleep?” Leliana sounded amused, and possibly intrigued.

“If she was awake, we would know. The World-Eater would have broken open the mountains and lands, and with her, the seas wouldn’t be calm. She would have called upon whirlpools and storms. She doesn’t prey on the things her children do. She is too big. She would have risen up from the depths, and swallowed all the water in the world and her breath would have poisoned the sky,” Aslaug wrung her hair out and lowered herself into the stone bath.

“Were you afraid of that when you saw the Breach?”

“No - I thought it was caused by the lowlanders, somehow. If Stornaðra was awake, she would not herald her awakening by poisoning the sky first. There would have been tidal waves and all the fresh water would have been drained.”

“And you would compare the Inquisition to her?” Leliana sounded bewildered.

“An unseen force that slumbers in the dark, rising only to lay claim on all the oceans and water in the world, uncaring of who dwelt on the land?” Aslaug questioned back.

“I do not see the connection,” the Sister sounded slightly frustrated with her.

She made a noise in the back of her throat, not quite a grumble, and she stood from the bath, having finished rinsing. Leliana didn’t know the stories Aslaug had been taught and told her entire life. Telling her would do little, and even Aslaug was keen enough that this would likely only lead to friction between them. “You were saying the Inquisition will grow.” She cocked her head and ruffled her wet hair, threaded crushed aloe and black lotus through it before she pulled on her under-leathers.

She stepped from the bathing area and Leliana turned smoothly. “Yes, it will. And it will need a proper leader; the definition of a thane is not enough to describe what would be required of you. You already see yourself in the position of leadership, do you not? This will only make it official; a title that will tell everyone your position within the Inquisition and beyond it. An authority.” Leliana seemed to wait for a response but Aslaug gave none as she sat down on a rickety stool and began combing out her hair to smooth more of the mixture through. “There has been precedence for such a title, although it hasn’t been used in hundreds of years, before the Chantry. Inquisitor; a role to seek out evil and darkness that threatens the land and tear it out by the root.”

“In the name of your god?” Aslaug asked. “Or the Chantry?”

“Do you know why the first Inquisition began?” Leliana asked instead. Aslaug set her comb aside and began braiding a wide strip of hair. “It was because of rampant blood magic, heretics, and demons. Evils that existed that threatened everyone, humans, elves, dwarves. The Chantry dissolved it once the world was deemed safer. Those involved with the Inquisition put down their blades and instead answered to the Chantry, and became the Seekers and Templars. They did so because the world, after their work, was less chaotic. We do not exist for the Chantry. The Chantry has failed its followers for some time - something Justinia was trying to fix before her death. But she was limited because she had to operate within it, and it is firstly a religious organization. You are not restricted as such. You are not even Andrastian. The Inquisition is not simply for followers of the Maker and Andraste. It is for anyone who wishes an end to chaos. It is why you joined, yes?”

“You want me to be an inquisitor?” Aslaug used a leather tie to finish her middle braid and allowed it to fall back into the rest of her hair.

“ _The_ Inquisitor. It will not be easy, but you rose to the occasion beyond the Anchor, and have far exceeded any expectation that would have been placed upon anyone in your situation.” She smiled slightly, an expression that was mostly hidden by her hood. “I trust you with this. You are different, and the Chantry must change, because the people are changing. The world is changing. You remind me a little of my friend, you know. He was not...kind, perhaps. But he was not without compassion and he was very practical. He was once thrust into a role no one thought he would succeed in, because he was different, and yet, here we all are.”

“‘Here we all are’?” Aslaug echoed.

“He was also called the Hero of Ferelden. He ended the Blight, killed the archdemon, and lived to tell the tale.” Leliana giggled at the look on Aslaug’s face.

 

…

 

The spymaster had not lingered after their conversation, and left with a final briefing. Her agent had sent the arcanist ahead without him in the company of another troop of volunteers and soldiers, and he would meet with them in the Rebel Queen’s Ravine to hunt down the rumors of red templars in the area. He had found what he believed to be their trail.

The position of Inquisitor wasn’t something she had wholly anticipated - the position was like a thane, yet not. Overseeing the people of a Hold, certainly, but from Leliana’s vague and rather unhelpful explanation, her people would be sprawled beyond the walls of Skyhold. She wondered uncomfortably if this was how lowland kings ruled; so far from their people, and with little knowledge beyond immediate or dire events.

She had breakfast; again it consisted of a thin broth, dried meat, and stale bread. The cheese was gone. She hoped the merchants carrying food would arrive soon. Thus far, only those carrying building materials and weapons had spread their wares.

It would be a few hours before she and her group, whoever Varric chose to go on this excursion, left. At a round bench, a soldier recently returned from night patrol passed around a skin of wine - she took a wild swig from it, and regretted it because it was thick and sappy, sweet as honey with fruit, but the soldiers around her looked more relaxed after. She couldn’t deny she relished that small bit of camaraderie, even if the wine sat heavily on her tongue.

They didn’t know her face. They must’ve thought she was one of the other Avvar. She was, in a way grateful for the lack of attention that people seemed to heap at her feet like offerings once they knew who she was, but at once the prickle of anxiety nibbled at her. Everyone in a Hold recognized the thane, the augur, the master of the hunt, the various chieftains from the tribes. But this was not a Hold as she was used to.

An elven woman by the name of Iona had packed for her the previous night so Aslaug found she had more free time before leaving than she had expected. After Aslaug had thanked her, she pawed through the bag to reassure herself it had all of her essentials. Iona hadn’t missed a thing. Odd, as she’d never seen her before, and Aslaug had always packed for herself. Leliana’s doing, perhaps.

She wandered to the healing tents, feeling aimless and restless. There wasn’t truly enough time to practice her reading, and while she could have focused on her handwriting it was an exercise in patience and frustration. She kept pressing too hard and making the ink blot, or snapping the point. Not to mention a matter of a bruised ego when even Josephine made faces at her finished attempts.

Felix wasn’t in the courtyard, perhaps he was sleeping for once. She didn’t know if it was the taint that still lingered in his bones or if it was since Patience’s bond with him, but he rarely slept. Three healers sat on a bench near a fire pit, eating quickly while what seemed to be apprentices cleaned various tools and mixed potions. Adan was there, legs sprawled out as he leaned heavily back against a pole.

Movement from the corner of her eye made her stop, cock her head, and watch silently. Cole, the kind god with a sharp blade, kneeled next to a female soldier. From the marks on her face she might’ve been carta once, or casteless. He wiped a cloth across her head, murmuring too softly for her to hear. When he stood, his hat tilted in a way that she understood meant he was regarding her. She felt it appropriate enough to approach and did so respectfully, taking care to make not a sound as she traversed the grounds he most often tread.

“She wants you to be more than what you are now,” he said gently. His large eyes beheld her entirely. “She thinks that because you are here that things must change.”

Ah, Leliana. “She means well, but a lot of people everywhere mean well, I’ve learned,” Aslaug said slowly. Gereon Alexius, father of Felix, still sat in the crumbling structure of Skyhold’s strangely limited prison awaiting his fate. The monstrous face of love. A father’s love. Forsake the world for just a chance to save his son. He’d meant well once, so said Dorian.

“He was so afraid. He’d already lost her, he couldn’t lose him too. He hated fighting; he liked music and art, he wanted to help people, but that man had to die for a chance to save his son.” Cole looked down at his hands, fiddled with his sleeves.

Aslaug blinked, coughed, and glanced to the side to watch a patrol exit the gate. “Shame,” she said.

“Yes.”

She saw Varric leading his mountain pony along, and he waved to her with a welcoming whistle. She lifted her chin in greeting and made to excuse herself from Cole’s presence, only to find that he’d already vanished. She turned to the direction of the old stables, still in dire need of repair, and saw that those Varric had chosen to accompany them were already in saddles. They were leaving earlier than had been agreed upon, but she understood the skald’s need for haste.

Her forder had been chosen as a cart horse shortly after they’d reached Skyhold for his mild temperament, so she was left with those that remained. An Avvar scout, one of the young ones she had spared in the Fallow Mire held a thick halter in his hands, and behind him stood an Avvar mount. He thrust the halter in her hands. “Bjarni,” he said, “His name’s Bjarni. A gift from Harthold to the woman who healed the Lady.”

Bjarni had a blue roan winter’s coat, heavy lashes, and had feathering along his fetlocks, but he was massive in size, dwarfing the stock in the stables. He’d need to be kept in the same side as Iron Bull’s war-nug since the rest of the stalls appeared too small for him. Aslaug clasped the boy’s forearm in thanks and she looped the halter around her hand, directing him to where Iona had said she would hang her pack for her. Bjarni was large enough that she needed to hop before she could swing on his back. He shifted beneath her with a gusty snort, one black eye observing her. She smiled down at him. She’d passed the test. He’d allow her on his back so long as she wasn’t foolish - of course who would wish to be stupid on a horse as large and solidly built as an Avvar warmount?

She patted his neck heartily. At the gate, Varric was waiting on his pony, alongside the others atop their own mounts. She saw that he’d convinced Dorian and Felix to come along - perhaps that grew tired of being the targets of wariness in Skyhold. From the far left, and impossible to miss, was Iron Bull seated atop his war-nug.

He came alongside her on his mount and gave her a thumbs up. “Nice horse, boss.”

Varric craned his neck to look up at her from atop his pony. “Ready, War Paint?”

She squinted slightly. “Is that my nickname?”

“What? You don’t like it?”

“Seems rather lazy of you,” she said and urged Bjarni to the front of their group.

“Everyone’s a critic,” Varric called from behind.

She gave a brief nod to Solas directly to the left of Varric, still felt the stir of annoyance when she recalled their last chat that had ended in him apologizing. He returned her greeting expressionlessly but it seemed more due to him being deep in thought rather than any remaining emotion from their discussion. She left him in peace and focused ahead.

Bjarni navigated the road easily. As an Avvar mount, he was more than used to climbing steep, rocky faces, and was aware of the dangers of slickened ice, the blinding fall of snow, and so made for the best leader. Although Varric’s mountain pony, Nibbler, was more than adequate but seemed to take his direction as a suggestion instead of a command to the point that he gave up.

“I thought ponies were nicer than this,” he muttered. “I’ve seen Orlesian ponies. At least I think there was a pony underneath all that lace.”

“What is that thing you’re riding Varric? Hairy little beast,” despite his words, Dorian sounded fascinated by it. He attempted to steer his mare closer to Varric’s pony but the wretch reached out to nip at her. “Ghastly,” he exclaimed.

“Sorry,” Varric’s bland apology came out insincerely. “He doesn’t like people. Or things that move.”

“He ate Varric’s glove once,” Iron Bull added helpfully.

Varric sighed loudly. “That one was probably my fault. I ate an apple and didn’t share.”

Dorian’s mare tossed her head and trotted to the other side of Felix’s gelding. They made a pretty pair. Aslaug had never seen Tevinter mounts before Dorian’s on their journey from Redcliffe, and while she couldn’t attest to how well they did in combat or how adaptable they were, they were very pretty. Dorian’s was nearly completely white but for her gray mane and tail, and Felix’s gelding was a chestnut that nearly shone red in the sunlight. She had seen Dorian’s mount before, but had never asked for her name.

“Admiring something?” Dorian teased.

Aslaug held Bjarni’s halter loosely in one hand, and adjusted on the blanket set over his back to look over. She could trust Bjarni knew the way down as well or better than she did, and certainly knew the limitations to his footing. “Your horses, you’ve said before that they were Tevinter stock, then?”

Dorian opened his mouth but Felix beat him to it, “Yes, Your Worship. Imperial Warmbloods. They’ve been bred over centuries to be intelligent companions, and that select breeding has led to a very distinct look.” Felix ran a gentle hand over the gelding’s concave profile. “They’re used to being around mages, which is rather important in the Imperium,” he added with a nervous glance in Iron Bull’s direction.

“Oh, I know. They’re smart bastards in a fight. I’ve seen one get a qunari off his feet before it smothered him when he knocked its rider off.” Iron Bull gave a nearly fond glance at the horses. “We’ve tried replicating the breed, you know, for scouts who aren’t qunari.”

“Yes, and you failed miserably. They went wild, so I’m told,” Dorian added blithely.

“Didn’t you people used to breed dogs?” Iron Bull wondered aloud.

“Yeah, Sparkler, I heard from a friend of mine from Minrathous that the Tevinters originally bred them but they ran to the Fereldans. Kind of a morale breaker, there.” Varric put a waxen pipe in his mouth and lit it. The contents were spicy and sweet.

“What? We never bred dogs - the mabari were bred by the _Formari_ ,” Dorian stressed. “It’s just a myth thought up by some ancient Fereldans who I imagine still shout about us ‘Vints’ across the harbors with their canes in the air.”

“It’s all magic to me,” Varric shrugged and puffed on his pipe, extending it to Iron Bull who took a long inhale. “Hey, Tiny, I get you’re about five of me stacked on top of each other and at least four across, but could you limit yourself a little? I only have so much left.”

“Four across?” Iron Bull exhaled through his nose, smoke curling around his face. “That’s hurtful, Varric.”

“She’s a pretty girl, what’s her name?” Aslaug referred to Dorian’s mare.

“Ah, her name is Anatola. The best of her breed, of course. I couldn’t leave her behind in Tevinter,” he stroked her neck fondly. “She broke the Minrathous obstacle racecourse record, you know.”

“She tied with a chestnut named Celes, Dorian,” Felix chided humorously.

“Hm, did she? I suppose I don’t remember that part, likely because he wasn’t nearly as lovely as she is,” Dorian added with a haughty sniff. “At least Decimus is a fair representation of the chestnut colors,” he nodded at Felix’s gelding.

Felix rolled his eyes but gave Decimus a scratch. “And your mount, Lady Herald? I don’t believe I’ve seen you ride him previously.”

“A very recent gift from Harthold. I’m lucky he took to me, otherwise he would’ve bucked me off by now,” she said.

“He’s very...large,” as Felix said that, she saw his eyes slowly catalogue the constitution of Bjarni. She supposed not many people beyond the Frostbacks saw horses like him.

“He’s a Frostback steed and he’ll be loyal and true if he takes to me, but he’s still got a bit of wildness to him,” she ruffled his mane and he shook her hand from him with a grumble. She smiled. “You don’t want them too tame in the Frostbacks. Nothing tame will survive for very long.”

A brief silence settled, and Dorian chose, oddly, to ride alongside Iron Bull while Felix had drifted closer to Varric. Felix still seemed uneasy being left alone in her presence. Time would fix it, she was sure. It wasn’t as though she was lacking it now.

When he spoke she was surprised he’d been paying attention to the conversation at all. “During the reign of Arlathan, it was regarded as a measure of one’s esteem within society to have tamed a hart. They once roamed in great numbers in Tevinter, wild and otherwise. They were intelligent, sensitive creatures which were by no means incapable of thought for themselves or their riders. I’ve seen memories of them in the Fade. One herd was nearly a thousand strong and the ground would shake when they migrated across the lands.” He tapped a gentle finger on his hart’s neck. “It had been prohibited to hunt them. It is surprising how well they've survived over time when one compares the current day hart to the memories of them. They've changed along with the world, I suppose." He sounded as though he was caught in a daydream and wasn’t even aware he was speaking aloud. The hart made a lowing sound that immediately sent Bjarni’s ears swiveling towards him. Solas smiled briefly and stroked the hart’s neck.

Aslaug made a short noise of amusement. Solas looked over at her expectantly, smile gone. “They’re hardy things. We have them in the Frostbacks. They’ve survived blizzards, rockslides, diseases, and they’ll do more than just chase a wyvern off.” She gave Adahleni a measuring look. “And people. They do more than just ‘survive’.”

He paused. “Yes, they have,” he said softly. 


	31. kvikr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that you only get the quest ‘Well, Shit’ after HLTA, but I’ve always thought that tracking the red lyrium supplier would’ve always been a number 1 priority for Varric and Cullen, and typically (for me at least) HLTA always comes after Halamshiral which I’ve always waited for a while to get to. I’ve changed some of the circumstances of this quest since I’m doing it before HLTA. ***there’s also an ME3 easter egg quote somewhere in here*** thanks for reading and enjoying. Sorry for the long wait, and I meant to break Valammar up in two, but I figured it might as well stay together.
> 
> kvikr - alive

_This will hurt,_ Aslaug thought when the bear slammed into her with its powerful shoulder and flung her into the side of a boulder. It didn’t even slow its pace after it hit her, instead it hurtled after Varric, roaring and swiping at his coattails with a paw.

“Shit!” Varric shouted as he scampered up the side of the boulder, launching himself in a flip and catching a handhold above. He dangled in the air, both hands clenching tightly. “Need a little help!” The bear stood on its hind legs and lipped at him, snapping its teeth.

Aslaug rolled to her front with a hiss. “Coming,” she wheezed. Bears were notoriously resistant to frost magic so she was forced to rely on her new shield and glaive. She was thankful Harritt had managed to salvage and repair them well enough to arm her, but the glaive’s blade was heavier than she was used to. She staggered the first few steps before bellowing a battle cry that made the bear turn to her. It roared in response and went to all fours with a loud thud. Varric swung his body to land on the top of the boulder, one foot dipping below the other. He pulled his crossbow from his back and cranked it back. He flashed the grenade at his hip with a wry smirk. She’d need to keep the great bear completely focused on her in order for him to successfully fire off his grenade without any repercussions. She brought her shield up and sunk her heels into the ground.

She began to hum to establish a rhythm and to hopefully attract a god. She could do with a little luck. These particular gray bears were feared and respected for a reason, and were often hunted in groups, not in pairs. Iron Bull likely had his hands full keeping the two remaining bears off of the others.

It snorted and took long strides towards her, huffing and grunting as it did so. She tapped the haft of the glaive against the side of her shield loudly, keeping its focus on her. When it charged, she was prepared enough to roll to the side and rise to a knee. The bear made a noise of frustration and turned to meet her, one giant paw clawed at the air. It scraped against her shield, but it shied from the wicked point of her glaive. It tapped at it and drew back angrily. She moved to keep up with it and never exposed her side. It was confused and frustrated. “Varric!” she yelled.

“Keep your head down and don’t move!”

She heard Bianca being cranked and fired then glass shattered. To her immense relief it wasn’t that pitch he’d used on the red templars at Havenhold, but it was some sort of sticky substance that stuck to the bear’s paws and fur. She backed away quickly and took aim. An arrow sunk into the side of its neck and she moved in for a strike but a moment after. The bear’s hide was tough and her glaive sunk into the back of its neck when it moved abruptly rather than in its throat. It made a guttering noise of pain and tried to raise its head. She moved closer to get enough leverage to pull her glaive out and try for a cleaner kill. She slammed her shield against its nose quickly to stun it and it groaned. The glaive came free with a hard tug, and its head wobbled when it raised it. She murmured a prayer of apology under her breath when her next strike was true, sinking it deep enough to ensure its death. It twitched and she pulled her weapon from it. The large bear sunk to the ground with a loud noise. Across the way, she was certain she heard Iron Bull laugh across the way.

She leaned over and held her ribs. She let out a long exhale. She was certainly bruised, at the least.

“Back in the ass end of nowhere and somehow we stumble over these damn things. You’d think there was enough room for them to stay away,” Varric breathed, and flapped the collar of his coat. “What was up with those bears? They were huge. They definitely weren’t the garden variety I saw when we first got here.”

“Gray bears. They don’t usually come down this way. They might’ve been drawn in by all the fighting and the bodies.” She pointed over to the others. “We should help them.”

Varric stood on his tiptoes and made a considering noise. “Nah, they’re doing alright. Tiny is keeping everybody safe...Felix is keeping him intact, and Solas and Dorian are actually doing the damage. I think we’ve earned a breather.”

She didn’t argue and instead sunk to a low seated squat, resting on her heels. He was right.

“Hey, are your ribs okay? You looked like a ragdoll.”

“It’s fine,” she pressed on her tender side. “It only _feels_ like he broke all my ribs.”

Varric barked out a quick laugh. “Fair enough.”

Iron Bull’s laughter came across clearly again, and sent a bird in a nearby bush fluttering away.

Varric slid down the boulder, boots scraping against its surface dryly. He pulled his pipe from the confines of his coat and pressed a dried mixture into it. He flourished a match and struck it against the boulder and puffed. He offered it to her with raised brows.

She took it for a long inhale. It was earthy with a bitter aftertaste that she recognized vaguely. Something had been mixed in with the tobacco. “Deep mushrooms?” she asked.

“Yeah, not my usual preference but I got a good deal on it. And Ferelden isn’t exactly swimming in Free Marcher branded luxury. Even the Free Marches don’t have a lot of Marcher goods right now.”

She smiled a little. “Didn’t think you would stand for deep mushrooms.”

“Well you’re not wrong. I don’t like to eat them, I hate the way they smell, and I do _not_ like finding them in my ale - let me tell you that was an unpleasant surprise - but this blend isn’t too bad. Probably because it doesn’t have too much Blightcap in it. I was lucky Ruffles started moving trading through Skyhold otherwise my stash would’ve already been gone.”

Aslaug made to take another inhale before eyeing it doubtfully. “Humans made this blend?”

“Yeah,” he wiggled his fingers and took it back from her.

“Not dwarves?”

“Nope,” he smiled around the pipe in his mouth. “Why, you don’t trust the good folks of Ferelden to make a good tobacco? Don’t trust them to not kill you with deep mushrooms?”

“No!” She was completely scandalized that as a dwarf he _did_.

He laughed at her and released a thick curl of smoke around his face. There was the sound of something heavy being dragged towards them - Iron Bull had apparently been tasked with the burden of dragging the bear corpses to them while the three mages brought up the rear. The warrior was bloodied, but a soft blue glow encased him in healing magic and she watched his flesh stitch back together with mild interest. The thick, intricate lines of his black tattoos were once again unbroken.

With a loud grunt, he set the animals down. He wiped the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders. “On the bright side, we found those bears that hunter was talking about. Well. Posthumously, for him, I guess.”

She scratched her chin. “Their claws and teeth make for good crafting materials. Bones would sell for a decent price, and the hides can be used for blankets.” She remembered the Crossroads had had a dire need for blankets in the earliest days of the Inquisition. She wasn’t sure if that was still the case, but it couldn’t hurt for them to have more supplies.

Iron Bull jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a camp up ahead. Some scouts and hunters. I don’t think we have all day to bleed these guys and clean them.”

She rolled to her stand on her feet and pressed her hand to her side. “True,” she hissed.

Felix regarded her carefully. “My Lady?”

Varric cleared his throat. “The bear tossed her around like doll. I don’t think she broke anything, but I’m not a healer.”

“Give me a moment, my Lady,” Felix said apologetically while he finished healing Iron Bull.

She waved him off. “Don’t apologize. I didn’t guard against it well enough.”

Iron Bull barked out an approving chuckle and slapped his meaty hand - nearly the size of a damn bear paw - against her back and the air whooshed out of her. “Live and learn, boss.”

“Excuse me,” Felix said. His hands hovered over her side. “You seem to have a tendency to hurt your ribs, you may want to be a little more careful,” he advised but a corner of his mouth twitched up.

She smiled briefly and let out a huff in amusement. “But then who would you practice on?”

“Just bruising, luckily.” He stepped back.

She inhaled, free of aches, and gave him a nod of thanks that he returned in acknowledgment.

Their mounts, all of which had been sent off away from the main point of their skirmish, were still where they had left them. The scout camp wasn’t far away. She and Iron Bull worked quickly to heave the bears using the remains of an old coat she’d ruined in the Fallow Mire. Bjarni and Asaara worked in tandem to pull the animals, burdened with thick ropes and guided by their hands.

Asaara crooned at Iron Bull who made kissing noises at her. Bjarni only flattened his ears and looked at Aslaug crossly even though he followed her instruction. She was slightly jealous.

The trail of blood was minimized due to Solas and Felix having sealed the wounds on the animals to prevent _other_ animals tracking them to the camp. Bjarni and Asaara made good time, and the scouts goggled at the size of the bears. At the scout leader’s instruction, they laid the bears closer to a table where game was often cleaned - blood spatter and old sinew tracked along the wood.

Varric smoked his pipe and winked at Aslaug when she wrinkled her nose at the sight. He waggled his pipe at her in a way that was mockingly enticing, but she frowned at him. She liked _not_ vomiting her lungs out.

The scouts promised to clean the bears. While the group washed themselves and ate a sparingly lean lunch with the watchmen, the sun was covered by an odd arrangement of clouds. Solas, Dorian, and Felix quietly discussed the Veil and its tears while Varric and Iron Bull traded stories of the Free Marches. Aslaug sat and watched a flock of blackbirds swirl and dive into fantastic acrobatics before disappearing further into the woods.

The Hinterlands felt strange now. Not her home, but some of her people belonged to it, and that meant a piece of _her_ belonged to it now as well. How many pieces of her would belong to the different lands her people hailed from? Would there be any of her left? She thought of Leliana, and of the Inquisition spreading across all the countries. A great winged thing that changed shape, or a formless mass beneath the ocean, that touched all the lands.

She’d only belonged to the Frostbacks before. She felt stretched, skin taut as though someone were baking her hide in the sun and salting her to make for themselves a yurt.

The day passed, and they continued. They couldn’t afford to dawdle. Although tracking the bears had been a boon; it had set their schedule back. She could hardly complain. They’d ridden hard and the break at the scout camp had been well deserved.  

They’d promised to meet Varric’s contact in a week’s time – hard time to force, but his contact was the shadowy sort. She assumed that meant they couldn’t move freely, for whatever reason. Today made the seventh day. Their mounts were tired, especially Bjarni, who felt the change in pressure and temperature as keenly as she did. Aslaug pressed them on, holding icy hands to Bjarni’s neck and chest when she could.

The sun was unforgiving after it cast aside the formation of clouds and the heat was uncomfortable enough that she stripped her furs off, leaving her outer leathers on though they itched. She felt a burn begin to form around her shoulders and upper back, and knew she would need to apply aloe to it.

Behind her, Iron Bull’s resounding laugh echoed off the canyon walls. Varric spoke with his hands and his crooked grin. It was another story about Hawke.

Varric’s grin faded when near the campsite of the carta. A hooded dwarven figure appeared to be waiting. A lean elf stood beside them.

Aslaug squinted. He was one of Leliana’s people; Pyp. He’d fought red templars before Havenhold fell.

He had his shoulder propped against a tree, his arms were crossed loosely and he had a pleasant smile on his face. The dwarven figure turned and a feminine voice spoke: “You damn liar. They didn’t send you ahead.”

The elf smiled, white teeth showing like a shark’s. “Technically, I never said they did.”

She, for she must be a she, Aslaug heard her voice, turned back to them. “Varric. Herald. Nice of you to bring a party with you.” Her voice was dry, and of ill-humor. Aslaug would’ve felt more charitable towards her had she not ridden them so hard to reach this woman and her damnable schedule. She frowned, her expression bordering on thunderous, and the woman shifted. “Right. Well, let’s get started, shall we?” she shot a look at Pyp. “I suppose you’re keeping watch?”

Pyp laughed. His eyes caught the light. Sea glass. Blue in one, green in the other. He unnerved the woman. Why he was intentionally doing so…Aslaug couldn’t say. Possibly Leliana’s orders, but Leliana would’ve spoken with her about her agent meeting them at this place instead of the Ravine.

“Oh no,” he purred, casting the woman in his shade. “I’m coming with. I’ve always wanted to see a thaig.” He was not shark. He was an eel, a snake beneath water, slippery and dangerous and colder than she remembered this polite fellow being.

Varric’s contact stiffened. “Someone should keep watch in case we’ve been followed. Or _you_ , rather. I wasn’t,” she snapped.

Pyp smiled, scuffed his foot. “You were,” he corrected gently. It felt as though the air was charged with electricity.

“Bianca,” Varric called out softly, as though he were afraid someone would hear and raise an alarm. “Mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

The hooded woman’s head snapped around swiftly, her fist clenched at her side. “What I called you down here for Varric. Someone is moving a lot of lyrium here, and making a hell of a living. Three guesses who.”

Varric sighed. “Carta. Figures. This is dirty dealing, even for them though.”

The woman – Bianca, like Varric’s crossbow – jerked a nod. “Rogue family. I suppose they’re keeping some of the other families out of the loop.”

“Shit.”

“They’re keeping this operation locked as tightly as they can. Which is why we need a volunteer to stay behind and keep watch,” Bianca cocked her head at Pyp.

Pyp produced a key from a side pouch. “I thought Valammar needed a few keys to open? Not to mention the local Fereldan crime ring got friendly with your friends. Made for interesting conversation.”

“Hey,” Varric warned. “They aren’t her friends.”

Pyp inclined his head. “My apologies.”

“That key,” Aslaug called out. “We need it.” She addressed the dwarven woman. She meant it as a question, but the heat and the hard travel tested her patience, to say nothing of her dislike of this uncomfortably awkward meeting.

There was a long pause, and Varric sent a reproachful look her way that she ignored.

“Yeah, we need it,” the woman sighed.

Pyp handed the key to her. “After you.”

Though Aslaug couldn’t see the woman’s expression, she had a distinct impression she shot the elven man a dirty look.

It was still decided, after speaking with Varric, that someone should stay behind to take watch. Felix volunteered, face thoughtful while he stared out across the lake, and while Dorian drifted over to regard the lake beside his friend. Iron Bull took a seat on a protruding rock before the entrance, favoring his leg slightly. They were all tired, and someone needed to watch the mounts. Bjarni in particular needed a well deserved rest. He’d need time to adjust to the warmer, unforgiving weather beyond their wintry home.

If Bianca – the woman, not the crossbow – was telling the truth, then it wouldn’t be a bad thing to have a small group watching the entrance.

Solas walked beside her, Varric was with Bianca, and at their flank, Pyp followed.

The Avvar had always belonged to the Frostbacks since their ancestors had come to it. It was in their blood and bone; they belonged to the wild places of the world. They were made of stone and ice, implacable and fierce as the storms and gales of the mountains.

But they belonged to the surface of the mountains. The Avvar did not belong to the heart of the mountains in the depths below, where the sun couldn’t reach them and the Lady couldn’t see them. Their deep dwelling cousins did. But they did not.

It was more than with a little prickle of unease that Aslaug followed Bianca and Varric into the darkness. Varric claimed he had no stone sense, and that he belonged on the surface, but he wouldn’t ever be able to convince her that the ease with which he navigated in the unseeing tunnel down to the thaig, was not in fact in his blood. Bianca led the group.

Finally, the tunnel opened into an enormous mouth, a great bridge led across a chasm that dropped down like a gullet into an unseen stomach. Dwarven bodies were already laid aside.

Bianca turned, hand on her bow. She stared at the man in the back of their party. “You already came through here,” she accused.

Though Pyp’s expression was still rather ambivalent, his grin was sharper and his eyes were harder. “The Herald had to come through here. You’re a great inventor, Davri, but you haven’t fixed a hole in the sky or have come to be recognized as a figurehead of the Inquisition.”

Aslaug looked over her shoulder at him. Solas, she saw, was scrutinizing him with a blank, nearly wary, expression. Varric fixed him with a scowl.

“Can you lay off?” he asked.

Pyp said nothing, dropping back behind the group. Bianca forged ahead again after another moment. They passed by more bodies. Some had their throats cut, others hung from nooses, and the rest looked bloated and purple with poison.

Varric asked Bianca about her husband, Aslaug noticed. Solas frowned at the bodies.

“If you already had come here, why are we going through it again?” she asked Pyp.

His eyes gleamed in the darkness, pitching forth an eerie light. He made no sound when he moved. His tattoos caught the edge of a torch’s light and held it for a moment like gold impressed upon his face.

“She knows more about the details than I do,” he said. “I only came here after I tracked movement to the fort where I found that key, and then serah Tethras’s contact came later.”

“And I suppose all of this was necessary?” Solas asked sharply.

Pyp barely spared him a look. “I could have waited for you all to come through and clear it, if you’d wanted. But I believed you had more pressing issues. Forgive me.”

Whatever it was about him agitated Solas. Solas, normally fairly self-contained with strangers or those he wasn’t at least familiarly acquainted with, turned aside with a noise of disgust.

Aslaug cast Pyp a wry glance. “You don’t have many friends, do you?”

Pyp smiled, but said nothing.

Although this place was oppressive, hiding her from the Lady and fresh air and the wilderness of the above that had shaped her, it was also a great deal cooler.

“Bianca,” Aslaug called out. The woman tilted her head to show she was listening. “How was it you came to find this entrance?” She had fuzzy memories of the stories swapped by surface traders about the Merchant’s Guild and the very brief explanation given to her by Josephine, but overall she was unfamiliar with their operations or even what their structure was like. She knew sometimes the carta worked with them. The carta were occasionally friends with the Avvar, moving items through their territory with the permission of the Avvar in exchange for goods, or at times they would hire a guide to help them cross the dangerous terrain.

“When you’re close to the Merchant’s Guild, you tend to have an ear to the ground wherever money’s being made and you’re not getting a piece. I followed a trail out here and found out that the carta took advantage of the chaos happening out here what with the whole…everything. They teamed up with a lot of hungry mercenary bands.”

She hummed in acceptance. “And the red lyrium, were you in Kirkwall when the idol turned the Knight-Commander into a statue?”

“Way to ease into it, War Paint,” Varric drawled.

Bianca barked out a laugh. Pleasant and boisterous. “No, Herald. I live in Orlais. Not Kirkwall. But Varric did tell me about the idol. About the lyrium. He wanted to know if anyone had ever come across anything like this and when he wrote me about it, I have to admit I was skeptical until the reports came in. Then I started digging, and once I started…well, I never stopped.”

Varric cocked his head at her.  

Aslaug fell silent for a moment. “And? What have you found out about the lyrium?”

Bianca sounded tired, hesitant, and fearful when she spoke. “That this red lyrium? It has the _Blight_.”

Varric stopped abruptly and faced Bianca. “You’re shitting me.”

Bianca was insistent. “No, Varric, listen – it’s all tainted with the Blight. Every single test I ran, every scrap of history I dug up about the Blight, documents and journal entries from the Fereldans who came into contact with the last Blight…it sounds impossible but it’s true.”

“Animals and plants can be infected.” Aslaug weighed the implications in her head and with a chill that crept from her scalp to rest between her shoulders, she continued, “But they’re alive.”

Bianca gaze snapped to her. “Exactly.”

Varric hissed an expletive, paused, and stared intently at her. “Bianca,” he began slowly, “How do you know all this? What tests?”

She scrunched her nose at him. “Really, Varric. You come to me during that whole disaster with Kirkwall and expect me not to follow up on something like this? I needed to know how it spread, if it was native to a specific thaig or if something was causing lyrium to behave this way. I figured it out.”

“Shit, Bianca – this stuff isn’t stable, believe me I had an up close and personal encounter with what it can do. Not just Kirkwall – you didn’t see Haven.”

“Varric, I’m not an idiot. The Mining Caste never moves lyrium without special equipment and that’s the _normal_ stuff. I took precautions. I’m not reckless.”

Varric’s expression was still annoyed, but he seemed somewhat amused. “That is the biggest lie you’ve ever told to my face.”

In the distance, something screeched. Aslaug recognized the sound, as did Varric and she followed his gaze towards the stone steps that led further down into areas where there were hardly any torches, and most of them sputtered from moisture dripping down the walls.

Bianca cleared her throat, and down they went, the new information about the lyrium manifested as a breathing, gripping fear.

More corpses. A darkspawn hole that Pyp pointed out – which Solas filled with a boulder while Aslaug tested the rickety bridge, trying not to look down.

“Afraid of heights, Herald?” Bianca asked, lightly teasing.

“Not heights,” she muttered, “But I don’t fancy all this dark.”

“Tell me about it,” Varric eyed the plunge.

“It is…distinctly unpleasant,” Solas agreed.

The bridge was deemed safe, barely, and they stood before a stone door. “Get ready,” she murmured. “The carta won’t let this key out of their sight.”

When the door opened, it was chaos. Varric had cloaked himself in smoke and fired off a grenade into the crowd of carta surrounding a key on a stone tabletop. Bianca had similarly vanished, pulling her bow back to land an arrow in the eye of a helmeted warrior. He crumpled to the ground heavily, armor clanging.

Solas summoned a ring of fire, keeping the enemies close to each other and Aslaug reached out, driving the point of her glaive in the side of a brute. She exhaled and with her breath, were the curling tips of frost and winter. He struggled to inhale, but lost the battle when Aslaug ripped her glaive from him brutally and drove the point through his chest.

Pyp had sliced open the throat of another rogue before tossing her body carelessly at one of her fellows. He danced across the battlefield – stabbing and slicing, and luring other carta members close to the ring of traps Varric had released after he’d hidden himself.

It was a bloody affair, and in closer quarters than Aslaug was personally used to. It reminded her of the skirmishes within Redcliffe castle. A man burned alive, screaming, before Solas caught him with a nearly vicious backhand from his staff that sent him stumbling into Aslaug’s glaive.

The last man dropped to the floor, dying, and spitting slurs at all of them. She moved to end him, but Pyp had slunk forth and gently placed his boot on the back of the man’s thick neck. He hushed him patiently before letting his weight drop and twisted his hips. He broke his neck, and the man lay still.

Bianca moved forward first, grabbing the key. “There it is...” the sound of cogs turning and locking into place following but Aslaug stared heavily at the key, at Bianca, at the growing suspicion on Varric’s face, and Pyp’s own pitiless eyes that rolled from the dwarven woman and back to her. His brows lifted slowly. “Alright, they won’t use that entrance again.” She straightened. “Looks like we cut off a major supplier of red lyrium, Herald. Thanks.”

“Bianca…” Varric warned slowly.

Studying red lyrium, knowing it had the Blight, knowing where a key would be and the fact that this place was used as a trading post –

“You,” Aslaug’s voice was louder than she meant it to be, but the realization struck her too suddenly for her to be mindful of her volume. “You led them here. You were here first.”

Bianca’s arms fell to her sides and she looked away. “I know this looks bad –”

Varric spluttered. “Looks – looks bad? Bianca, this isn’t just you getting caught taking an apple from a cart or accidentally staining a ball gown in wine – this shit is the worst thing I’ve ever come across. The worst thing Hawke ever came across – and she was in Ferelden during the Blight!”

“I had to find out what was causing this, Varric! It’s one thing to _know_ that something is bad, and it’s another to understand _why_!”

“It’s bad because it makes people hallucinate, brings statues to life, and drives everyone _insane_ , Bianca!” Varric bellowed back unexpectedly. “You know what it did to Bartrand.”

“And that’s why I needed to find out more. We have to understand it. What happened to your brother, Varric…I can’t help with that, but if I was able to find out what was causing it then maybe down the line other people would have a chance figuring out how to help people who were infected by it.” She deflated, not meeting their eyes. “I messed up.”

Aslaug felt swayed by the argument, in part. She folded her glaive to rest across her back and slung her shield over it. “How did the carta get your key?” she asked.

Bianca sighed heavily. “I think they stole it from someone. Look, when I was researching this I knew that this lyrium was…sick. I didn’t know if some major vein had been corrupted, or if it had come into contact with blood magic somehow or what, so I reached out to some people. Nobody knew what exactly was wrong with it. And it was all in controlled environments, precautions were taken – we weren’t going to be stupid about it. We all read the Kirkwall reports. Then I found this guy named Larius. He was a Grey Warden mage and seemed interested in the research, so he offered to help. And I gave him a key so he could find it on his own. The way he talked about how Blight corruption works –”

“ _Larius_?” Varric blurted, and abruptly closed his eyes. Wrinkles formed around the creases of his mouth. “Oh shit.”

Aslaug rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Varric.”

“Larius was the guy who helped us kill Corypheus – he was down there with us. I – something was wrong with him, he was turning into a ghoul and didn’t have a lot of time but…I don’t know. Something changed, right before we went our own ways.” His voice was steady, albeit exhausted and tinged with a kind of dread she’d only heard from him when he mentioned the transformation of Knight-Commander Meredith in that final battle.

“I didn’t realize something was off until you said there was red lyrium at the Temple of Sacred Ashes…then the red templars, notifications about heavy carta movement. Well…then I went to you.”

Varric regarded Aslaug with a heavy stare. “Larius was never a mage before. Hell of a fighter, but definitely not a mage, and I don’t think that’s something that happens through hard work and perseverance.”

“No.” Her lips thinned. “Varric said you were his contact about this, that you had a lead following carta.”

“It was true –”

“A lie,” Aslaug barked back. She understood and somewhat approved of the woman’s discovery – lyrium infected with the _Blight_ of all things – and it raised up so many more questions, but she couldn’t approve of being led by the nose, blinded and deafened. “A lie about where you fit into this. You were right to investigate the lyrium itself. It’s best to understand an enemy –” Varric made a disgruntled noise but Aslaug pressed on, “ – but you presented yourself as though you’d never had contact with this place before. Are you hiding anything else?”

She pinned Bianca with her gaze. She needed to know if the woman understood all the consequences her curiosity, no matter how beneficial, had wrought. Bianca stood firm, and met her gaze. “It’s why I came anyway. I had to make it right.”

Aslaug backed away from her respectfully.

Varric groaned, rubbed the back of his neck. “Bianca you…you better get home before someone misses you.”

She moved to follow him when he started for the exit. “Varric.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled.

She watched him walk away. “Get him killed, and I’ll feed you your own eyeballs, Herald.”

Aslaug thought that was a bold thing to say to someone who could easily grab the woman up and either snap her spine or freeze her for convenience sake and toss her over the edge.

Bianca searched the shadows and flinched, before swiftly turning away. Aslaug looked over her shoulder to see the silhouette of Pyp, whose eyes followed Bianca before he glanced at her and smiled.

Valammar remained as unfriendly as it had when they’d first entered, but the newest revelations within the group made even small talk more difficult. Aslaug walked with Solas to give Varric and Bianca space though they weren’t speaking.

They parted at the entrance. Their mounts were grazing on reeds and grass, Bjarni waded in the lake water beneath the shade of a tree. Felix stood at the end of a short dock near a brass plate with a sword balanced across it. Dorian was speaking excitedly to his friend and Iron Bull seemed unnerved, one hand on Asaara’s horns, scratching her as she lipped at the air contentedly. As placid as the scene was, Aslaug could see blood on the grass, and spotted bodies that had been pushed over the rocky hill. Bianca had been wise to advise someone keep an eye on the entrance. Pyp nearly immediately departed, saying he would see them tomorrow at the Rebel Queen’s Ravine, and he took a small, lean horse, galloping away. She would have extended an offer to remain with them, but he put Solas on edge and Varric seemed to dislike him.

Varric watched Bianca ride off on her pony. The woman didn’t turn back. Aslaug clapped a hand to his shoulder and shook him companionably. “We’ll need to take a trip to Orlais eventually and save the Orlesians because apparently they’ve forgotten how to use a sword. You can come with?”

“Honestly, it might be better to just let this one go. Thanks, though,” he said quietly.

She nodded and released him.

“There’s a spirit in the lake,” Felix said suddenly, hand tracing the lip of the platter. “Valor. It asked for a boon in exchange for a prize.” He looked thoughtful, the land of dreams swelling around him in a tide as Patience pulled closed to the surface.

“It was utterly fascinating,” Dorian tapped his mustache and looked into the water. “And it seems as though you’ve all had a successful venture. Did you find the supplier?”

“The leak,” Solas corrected absently, as he too regarded the water, “was in fact Varric’s contact. But Valammar is sealed as of now.”

“I imagine everyone will want to hear what she found out about red lyrium,” Aslaug inserted. “It’s got the Blight.”

“Smooth as always, War Paint.”

The group took their mounts closer to the cabin beside the lake and began settling in for the day. The evening, with a dinner of fish after Aslaug bargained with the spirit of Valor using a threaded crown of elfroot, was spent in conversation about red lyrium and its properties and what it meant to have the Blight. Varric was quieter than usual, so Aslaug told the story of the man who became a god because he tricked a wicked, vile witch with laughter. The avalanche buried her beneath the roots of the mountain, and the man became a god, as he’d never intended but somehow earned anyway with his mischief and tricks.


	32. sviga læ

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there’s a dragon in here, she is just the dragon in Ferelden; she isn’t possessed, she isn’t Mythal or in any other way special. just a HC about High dragons in general exists here. 
> 
> sviga læ - fire, a destructive force

It had been nearly two months since Hrathgur had blessed and led the winter festival. Aslaug hadn't prepared any new rituals or consulted Hakkon. No offerings. Not that she hadn't tried, but since forcing Varric, Iron Bull, and Solas to participate in her need for a ritual for winter and Havenhold it felt foolish to do so alone – an ugly thing once she had thought about it. To force her friends to participate in a religion that was not theirs, a ritual they didn't believe in. She'd apologized to Varric and Iron Bull, who both luckily humored her, although it truly did nothing to alleviate that guilt. So self-righteous about the Chantry and their Burned Woman, and she had forced her beliefs upon them. Regardless of whether it had been a temporary thing, or a full commitment didn't matter. It happened. If they asked to share it with her, if she asked to share with them and they agreed it would be another matter. She wouldn't extort it from them.

She had meant to apologize to Solas, but had been too annoyed at him after his comments about her reading and seeing Skyhold as her people. Even annoyed at his sincere apology. Mostly annoyed at herself if she was truthful. She would apologize soon, once her ire at herself and him died down.

At least some things were looking more optimistic.

Nights in the Hinterlands were luckily much cooler than the days. The sticky humidity of the winter days in the lowlands was the equivalence of summer in the Frostbacks. Breezes were a blessing. Game had returned in full force. The mountains were looking toward the usual lean months now that winter had truly settled. The Inquisition was busy helping the refugees and hunting down not only rogue mages and templars, but also carta. Anyone who might be connected to the bandits contracted by the carta, anyone who seemed to be moving or mining red lyrium. Pyp's people, apparently as they were, were relentlessly hunting down anything related to red lyrium. Varric looked relieved although perhaps that wasn't quite the right emotion he was expressing, but only the closest one she knew. Dorian was still pouting about being in the Hinterlands at all. Bad memories, probably. Iron Bull, in between puffing away all of Varric's tobacco, mostly tried convincing wild mabari to come closer. It just meant the dogs whined to him from afar and waited for scraps.

Felix was popular in the Crossroads; a healer who only wanted to give aid and kindness. He tended to an elderly couple with a gentle smile. It was at Aslaug’s insistence that they stop there - she hadn’t forgotten the desolate faces of the refugees, how she’d immediately been disappointed in their inability to live off the land in such times. It was now with an uncomfortable recognition that she realized it had been a callous judgment foisted on a suffering people. She might have pushed to help them immediately, but she still regretted her perception of them; their culture and ways of life didn’t include the knowledge of the harshness of the wilderness. They’d been lost, and abandoned. It was just as well that the Inquisition had shown her how blind she’d been in her youth and from her first months in the lowlands. She would be better. There was no way through but forward.

Iron Bull grunted his approval – “Higher-ups forget about everyone below them. They shouldn’t, but they do. Keep this up, boss.”

Dorian remarked on Fereldan fashion at its finest, although he’d made conversation with a younger mage and asked her if there was anything the people needed since they were there. The young lass had smiled, blushed when Dorian winked at her which Aslaug sent him a dry look for, but said no softly. Trade was moving again, the people were cared for, and there was a sense of safety few others had. Dorian had asked her about Redcliffe castle in a muffled tone, and Aslaug unashamedly eavesdropped. Redcliffe was recovering, although the king of Ferelden was still furious over it, but the people had gone back to their homes and businesses.

The people of the Crossroads recognized her, she realized. An elven herbalist had smiled and curtsied upon spotting her, calling her “my lady”. They wore sheepskins and more of the refugees seemed to have joined the Inquisition, thanking her for her efforts. Aslaug didn’t know their names or their faces and so accepted their gratitude with a lurch in her chest, and something like shame in her words.

The Crossroads were healthier though, and a scout master saluted her with a fist to his chest, standing at attention formally until she slowly returned the gesture – that had not existed in their interactions before, and thanes required no obeisance during their time as holders of the Hold. But the lowlands were different, far more so than the variances of culture amongst the Avvar tribes. A master of the hunt – although he claimed no such title, offered them crusty bread and dried meat for their journey. With all the Inquisition soldiers and the overflow of volunteers, they were now rich in necessities. Aslaug gnawed on a fatty strip, head turned back to watch the people of the Crossroads see the group off. They stood vigil and waved, joyful and yet solemn. “You’ve done well,” Solas murmured from her side. She faced the front and patted Bjarni’s thick neck. “The people are recovering and it seems that they’ve even sought to help the Inquisition.”

“Resilient,” she added. “The war hasn’t been kind to them, but they’ve learned something from it.”

“Was it necessary for them to learn anything? And in such an abominable way?” he returned quickly.

“No,” she said slowly, turning the words and what she meant in her head. “But war and death offer few comforts. Even if it is paltry, can they not take this lesson as something that they’ve won from their hardship?”

Solas considered her for a long moment. “It isn’t what I would have offered to comfort the grieving, but perhaps it is better than an empty apology.”

No one could take away the pain the war had brought to their doorstep, and words turned to weeds during times of grief. Lessons and what had been learned, actions, was all they had.  

The Avvar had learned that long ago, as a silent audience when the Lady’s servants eyed and pecked curiously at their dead as if they meant to discover the secrets of death itself. They had learned it from watching the ice wolves and the great elk, flowers breaking through the crust of ice only to wither beneath a stationary sun. The death of their kin and speaking to the spirits and gods of the Frostbacks had taught her people, the Avvar, that the kindnesses and cruelties in the world were not always what they seemed.

“Will Leliana’s agent be waiting for us in the Ravine?” Solas asked offhandedly.

Aslaug squinted an eye at him. “Don’t care for him much, do you?”

A fine line in Solas’s jaw moved. “I can’t say I particularly care for his company, no.”

No, no he didn’t. There was a distinct distaste for the elven agent. It was like a musk in the air. Pyp had not liked Solas, but perhaps he simply had leftover feelings regarding his interactions with Bianca. Not altogether a pleasant woman, but Aslaug understood her intentions. Although she had no doubt that Leliana’s man would be keeping an eye on her movements for the next year. It struck her that she never would have assumed Leliana would continue to spy on an ally of theirs before they moved to Skyhold, before the destruction of Havenhold. There was no sense of true alarm with that epiphany. Resignation, perhaps. She’d wished to educate herself on the world beyond the Frostbacks. She’d sworn it in truth when she offered herself up as sacrifice for Havenhold’s people. That it was occurring didn’t make her cautious.  She wondered if people could see the change in her, like leaves changing season.

“He’s an alright sort. He fought with us against the red templars before Corypheus arrived, remember?” she asked. "He's the one in charge of rooting them all out of the Hinterlands now it would seem. We're there for support against that fort they believe exists there."

“Yes, I do. I recall him distinctly as one of Leliana’s. And I remembered his vallaslin.”

“Oh? What do his markings mean?” Dalish tattoos had always been regarded as beautiful among the Avvar. She knew they represented gods, but she didn’t know all their gods by heart, or all their stories. Hrathgur had. All augurs did. Gods spoke of other gods across the passages of time, and augurs spoke to the gods of things that were, are, and might be.

“He wears Dirthamen on his face. The Dalish god of secrets.”

Aslaug barked out a brief laugh. “Bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

Solas smiled without humor. “So it would seem. I wonder if our Spymaster is aware of it.”

She shrugged. “If she wasn’t, would he tell her?” she wondered. Someone who had the god of secrets tattooed of their face didn’t seem the type to share.

Solas fell silent.

Whether he sensed the lull in conversation between she and Solas, Iron Bull swung up beside her to ask for some of her dried meat. He offered a dark brown treat he called ‘chocolate’ as compensation, but when she sank her teeth into it, her senses rebelled – the scent and taste of it was just wretched. She swallowed what she took and passed the rest back to Iron Bull, pulling out more meat to chew on. The warrior’s laugh at the face she made when she’d bitten into his treat made birds nesting in a nearby tree scatter.

Bandits still roamed the countryside. They made the error of attempting to prey upon them; they mistook Felix and Dorian as nobles being escorted by an eclectic entourage of bodyguards.

During the day, a shriek that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise made her tug on Bjarni’s mane, squeeze his side. The war mount exhaled sharply and pawed at the ground. The others’ mounts were similarly stirred. The shriek came again, ending in a roar that threatened the world like thunder.

“Dragon,” Solas declared, a kind of quiet urgency in his voice.

Varric, who had been reticent since their time in Valammar, cursed loudly the same time Iron Bull let out a crow of excitement.

Aslaug clenched her teeth and caught Solas’s eye before he broke away to search the sky. “Close?” she asked. She hadn’t even seen a dragon for herself – a living one, anyway. There was only one dragon in the Frostbacks, and the Avvar had since left it alone; preserved in time with its enemy as it was.

“Not far,” Solas affirmed. His head cocked. “We should hurry. I believe it is coming in the direction from the Rebel Queen’s Ravine.”

“Yeeeesss!” Iron Bull cackled.

“It’s like traveling with Hawke all over again,” Varric grouched.

Their mounts, driven into a pace brought on by their riders’ collective tension, and their own nervousness, covered ground to the Ravine quickly. The eye of the Inquisition stared at them as its flag flapped sharply in the winds.

The troops there moved frantically, ushering what looked farmers before them.  Pyp was giving orders to other scouts and gave the group a short salute. Aslaug returned it, thinking back to the formality that had somehow become the norm in the Crossroads.

“Herald,” a scout breathed. “We were right; the templars were using the Ravine as a main camp, but we drove them off.” His eyes were wide. “But we, we woke it up or something. It burned a farm down.”

“Woke what?” She interrupted his soft babble of fear. The pit of her stomach twisted and clenched, her breath quickened, and there was an elated ringing in her ears.

“A _dragon_ , Your Worship,” he squeaked.

Randa Dragon-Bane, a woman with a legend mark who lived centuries ago, had become a dragon slayer only to disappear once she reached the northern most lands in her hunt for a final dragon. All Avvar children knew of Randa, her perils and struggles, and all children who learned of her tale immediately wished to see a dragon with their own eyes. Their gods kept them from the dragons they claimed roamed the land of dreams. Only Dream-makers ever saw them. She couldn’t count that creature leashed to Corypheus, blighted or tainted or whatever it was, as a true dragon.

“It’s a threat?” she asked rhetorically, eyeing the trail that would lead out to open fields and a small dock as their map had shown. Her curiosity was peaked, that childish part of her that never outgrew wandering the old trails of the people who walked the Frostbacks long before her ancestors ever set foot across the sea.

“Very much so, Your Worship. The people have been evacuated and all boats and ships have been forced to dock elsewhere – but the creature has dragonlings.”

“Boss,” Iron Bull tried to whisper, but his volume was still loud enough to be audible for even the shaken scout to hear. “There’s a dragon here. Let’s go see, hm? What a fight.”

Dorian frowned. “You hear ‘dragon’ and you honestly want to go charging off to meet it in a fight?”

“You don’t?” Iron Bull asked.

Varric sighed loudly. “What is it with Fereldans and dragons? First it was the archdemon, then the Bone Pit, Corypheus's thing, now this shit.”

“If she has already attacked a farm and deemed this area her nesting grounds, then we must root her out,” Solas added firmly. His eyebrows were drawn down.

“Must we kill her? Can’t we just…herd her somewhere she won’t bother people?” Felix asked.

“Are you afraid of killing the avatars of your gods?” Aslaug asked, shifting on Bjarni. She’d thought Dorian and Felix followed the Burned Woman – Andraste and her Maker.

“Not that,” Felix corrected. “They’re intelligent, they have emotions…”

“They’re also a chaotic force,” Iron Bull insisted. “Sure, they’re awesome. But they burn lands, eat people, and do a lot of other nasty shit.”

“It’s the “eating people” that’s making me hesitate,” Dorian drawled.

“Maker’s beard. You know how many people a dragon can eat? I didn’t count the bones to double check my math since I was too busy trying not to die at the time, but I’m sure _a whole hell of a lot_ about sums it up.” Varric scratched his chin, fists tight on his pony’s reins.

“They are magnificent, but it must be done. They’ll bring ruin to the people who are trying to repossess their lives,” Solas said.

“Patience could show you, if you ask her,” Aslaug said. “She was there during the times of the dragon queens. She knows.”

The scout made a confused face. “Your Worship?”

Aslaug snapped back to look at the scout. “Tell the scout master to retreat and keep escorting people away from this place. We’ll bring her down. Once we do, your people will be tasked with removing her harem and the young.”

The scout went pale and tripped over his words; something about ‘keeping her ladyship safe’, and ‘what if the dragon eats you’, and also more disturbed commentary when Asaara shooed him from her path with a spread hand.

Pyp turned to them, expressionless. “The way to her lair is clear, save for her harem. They seem to be guarding her little dragonlings. Good hunting, Your Worship,” he called before he turned away to his duties of preparing the camp for more drake attacks.

He likely knew convincing her not to head the field was useless.

They followed the trail further from the camp and saw that the dragoness had surely claimed this area as her home. Patches of trees and brush were still aflame or at least smoldering. Black smoke curled to the sky and the acid scent of burnt flesh and death was strong enough that it made her eyes water. Screeches and shrieks, animal cries that were a complex language of sound and tone, were the only signs of life in this place. It might’ve been a meadow, and to the far flung corners she saw remnants of smoking homes and blackened fields that must’ve been crops before. There were enormous tracks in the mud and grass – partially eaten carcasses of livestock were tossed around carelessly. A body of a farmer was face down, half submerged in the water.

Bjarni smelled the blood and moved restlessly beneath her, pawing at the ground and tossing his head. A veteran war mount like him was well aware of what came with that smell. He could smell a predator in the area. That accounted for his mood shift.

She slowly slid from Bjarni’s back and urged him back to the rock tunnel, hand on his chest. They would need to leave their mounts and continue on foot. They couldn’t fight what looked to be a veritable troop of drakes and hatched dragonlings before facing the dragoness. They would need their strength.

Of the mounts, Asaara was the most reluctant to leave her rider. She groaned after him pitifully and tugged at his pants, bunting him with her large horns. It took him bribing her with an apple and a lot of affectionate petting before she let him go, though she stood at the mouth of the tunnel, watching him. Smart creature could smell the enemy they would be facing and knew what dangers Iron Bull faced. Solas’s hart let out a low while the two Tevinter horses nickered and called.

Bjarni remained still, as Aslaug had asked. In truth, if he wanted, he could run out to meet them and she wouldn’t be able to stop him. That wildness existed to prevent anyone from truly owning him. But she suspected it was just good horse sense that warned him of something ahead that could swallow him whole.

They moved quietly as a unit to remain out of sight of the beasts. Two drakes fought over an unhatched egg. The winner trampled it.

Dragonlings hissed and scrapped, tearing the flank of a deceased druffalo in two and playing with their prizes. There were several corpses in armor, and the exposed chest plating of one showed a sword on fire. Templars. There signs of fortifications, ruined by blade and fire. The blade must have come first. 

There were other bodies, both animal and human, and Aslaug wasn’t sure how long they’d been there; their bones were bleached from the sun and they’d been perfectly skeletonized.

The sounds of the drakes and dragonlings were slowly left behind. In the distance, that same shriek that had alerted them before nearly shook the ground. There was the great sound of air being funneled, of beating wings. A shadow blotted out the sun.

Aslaug’s eyes widened to the point of strain and her body shuddered. Her fist tightened on her glaive and her shoulders tensed even as she unconsciously tried to make herself smaller.

She, the queen of ruin and primordial force, landed and broke the rocks beneath her talons, her tail slapped away at the piles of bones behind her.

She was golden scaled but the sun made her iridescent. Greens of all shades rippled over her crests and horns, her back and throat. Her eyes were red and focused on the party. She made a deep, thudding sound that originated from the bottom of her throat. Aslaug furrowed her brows.

A hand gripped her arm and she nearly jerked away in surprise before Solas put his mouth near her ear, “Move!” He had already fade stepped from their previous position, forcing Aslaug along with him, when Varric shouted a curse and ran behind a boulder. Felix had similarly spirited Dorian and Iron Bull away with him.

The fireball landed right where they’d been and incinerated the carcasses near it. The ground was black.

The dragoness hissed and threw her head back, thrashing her neck from side to side.

She –

 _She’s laughing_ , Aslaug thought. Tales of dragons had always portrayed them as creatures of great intelligence capable of malevolence and compassion. It had been an old wives’ tale, had it not? Dragons were magic, indeed, and smart for animals with the force of the elements and their size on their side. To be able to laugh, perhaps even _mock..._ although to give her that much credit discomforted Aslaug. It meant more than being an animal capable of destructive power.

She had no time to check on the others – the dragoness had craned her head and snapped her neck, releasing another short ball of fire that Solas raised a barrier against and forced Aslaug to support it with frost. The heat of the dragon’s fire melted her frost and water dripped down her back, her chest, through her hair.

Iron Bull let out a war cry and was at the dragoness’s feet, swinging his weapon down on her toes. She shrieked and moved back, jabbing at the warrior with her snout. Blue light clung to Iron Bull – Felix’s skin had seemed to crack and give way to blue lines, but his eyes were his own. He and Patience were working together to protect the warrior.

Aslaug and Solas escaped their corner, out into the open.

The dragoness towered over them, impossibly gigantic and formidable. Smoke blew through her nostrils and her claws scrabbled against the broken earth.

It was the beginning of a long, grueling battle that somehow surpassed the battle for Havenhold, although it didn’t feel nearly as devastating.

The dragoness gave no quarter. She uprooted the remains of a large tree to lunge at Varric; she breathed fire and roared her fury when it roasted no one. Her tail slammed into the rock face of a short plateau and it collapsed, nearly crushing Felix beneath its debris who only just managed to fade step away.

Her back leg caught Iron Bull across his chest when she kicked, and the qunari warrior was flung into a puddle of befouled water.

Varric fired a grenade of pitch that found the dragoness’s eye. She screamed so loudly that the party had to cover their ears.

Aslaug had exhausted her connection to the land of dreams, but the dragoness was weak against frost – she was the only one amongst them who lived and breathed winter. Solas passed her a lyrium bottle and then he drank one as well.

She drank three lyrium bottles before they had managed to push the dragoness into a full retreat. She fled to the top of the tallest hill, a spiral of rock served as a staircase, and the great thing glared at them with her remaining eye balefully. She hissed and snapped, favoring her back leg and the front leg Aslaug had thoroughly damaged with a critical blow from her glaive, sheathed in ice that spread to her bone. One of her wings was torn from a vicious blow from Solas; a fist of god-fire had broken the finer bones of her wing and rendered it useless.

Felix rejuvenated Aslaug and all her aches were forgotten as she raised her shield, Iron Bull’s bloodied and battered body began stitching its skin together. They blocked the way back down the hill. At the dragoness’s back there was only a crumbling mass of hexagonal stones, and behind that, there was only the sea. The sun had moved in the sky.

Solas dealt the killing blow to the dragoness. She spat fire and showed her teeth until her end. Her legs gave beneath the weight of her body, her good eye still staring. She rumbled out one last breath.

Aslaug sang prayers under her breath – for the gods that had followed the fight, she had felt them, but they were a silent, distant audience that observed; typical for the lowlands, and for the dragon which was more and less than the tales had said.

She sank into a grateful squat before the dragoness’s body and hung her head between her arms. Dorian made a pained noise as he found a place for his rear on a relatively clean rock. Iron Bull flopped down on the ground.

Varric lay flat on his back but a few feet from her.

Solas squatted beside her with a long sigh. “That took longer than it would have once,” he muttered. He rubbed his shoulder.

Aslaug raised her brows. “You’d have killed her in half the time in your youth, on your own?” Even with Felix’s care, who alone looked to be in the best condition of the party, she was still bone tired. Not tired enough to ignore Solas’s unwitting jab at his age.

Solas regarded her briefly before a slow, rolling chuckle built up.

Varric snorted and the laughter spread through the party. Fatigued and sore, even beside the body of a beast that had once belonged to tales told to children beside a fire, merriment found them briefly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Codex Entry
> 
> Character history:
> 
> Randa Dragon-Bane was a woman originally from an Avvar tribe within Snake-fish Hold who lived during the beginning of the Black Age. Randa first rose to fame when she avenged her husband after a High dragon that had made its spontaneous nest in the Frostbacks killed him while he’d been hunting. She went on to clear out the nest and gifted her late husband’s Hold with an untouched dragon egg, larger than any of the others she had found. Ferelden was beset by more dragons, and traders brought word of dragons swarming the lowlands. Randa went off to the lowlands, after consulting with the gods of Red Lion Hold and the augur, to hunt the beasts that ravaged the lands.  
> She was known to have killed two dragons on her own, but her total went up to eleven after she joined a party of “dragon hunters”. Her Hold waited for Randa’s return, and news was brought from the mouths of traders, but after reports said that she went north following a dragon called the Great Mother, Randa’s trail ended and she never returned to the Hold or the Frostbacks.  
> The kindest ending of this story still told by Avvar today, is that Randa died killing the Great Mother and had been accepted by the Lady of the Skies regardless. They carried her to the afterlife, and her bones sank into the soil of the land called Nevarra to strengthen it. The original ending of Randa’s tale was that in her quest to destroy the monstrous creature, she became a monster, and supped from the flesh of fallen dragons until she was no longer a creature with a name.


	33. sǫngr einn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sǫngr - song, einn - one
> 
> A short update since I'm going to be breaking up the lyrium quests differently - I always considered it a high priority mission in DAI - but we're following the red lyrium first before any of the major quests. Thanks as always for leaving kudos, commenting, or just hanging out to read guys.

Varric groaned as he lowered himself to sit.

Aslaug prodded at the fire with the end of her glaive. Firewood crackled.

“Cullen's been busy,” he remarked.

“Yes,” she said. The Inquisition was under more pressure to find and eliminate any trails leading to red lyrium. Commander Cullen was focused on the project, but his ire was captured by the right hand man of Corypheus – a man named Samson who had once been a templar. Barris had offered himself fully to the Inquisition and so had the templars Cassandra had managed to save, but Aslaug believed it was to borrow trouble if they sent them after their once brethren.

It was the responsibility of the soldiers and scouts to hunt templars which was tricky. Templars were already frightfully capable warriors. Red lyrium only further empowered them. Cullen was focused on Samson and the templars, whereas Varric and Leliana – indirectly through her agent Pyp – focused on the lyrium.

“Word is there's a lot of activity in the Emerald Graves – great name for something terrible, by the way – and Cullen thinks that's one of the major trade areas. There's also a lot of movement in the Storm Coast,” he muttered and picked at his cheese. “Not to mention that quarry out in Emprise du Lion. Still haven't heard much.”

“The Commander sent word that he plans to excavate the area with the...above ground thaig,” Aslaug pulled out the short note he'd sent. “He believes the templars are using it to smuggle necessities. There's a lost dock near there.”

“Above ground thaig...” Varric repeated. “Who would've thought dwarves built above the ground?”

“Much of factual history has been lost to the world. The illusion of control over history is more important than the actual preservation of it,” Solas commented. “Did the Commander have any directives?”

“As of yet? No. He suggested we go to the Storm Coast. Leliana's people have yet to explore the Emerald Graves fully – the fighting in the Exalted Plains has drawn most of their concentration.” She folded the paper and stowed it away in her pack. “But he also mentioned that Hawke arrived early.” Actually, he'd specified that she had clearly lied about the time of her arrival.

Varric grumbled. “Damn, Hawke. I'm sure he loved seeing her.”

The Commander's penmanship had suffered very obviously when he wrote about Hawke, even to Aslaug's untrained eye. “I would worry more about Cassandra than the Commander.”

“Obviously. Cassandra punched a dragon out before, Curly's just there to pretend that he's the intimidating one. But that's Hawke for you. She loves being someone's pain in the ass.”

Iron Bull rose his brows in interest. “The Champion of Kirkwall already got there? Hot damn.”

“You a fan, Tiny?”

“Hell yes. She faced off against a dragon, and she got the old Arishok's respect before she kicked his ass.”

“You know I thought you'd be offended by that.” Varric leaned back against his pack.

“Nah. The qunari knew the score. The old Arishok never should have instigated a siege like that. Hawke just did what she had to. Did a damn good job of it too.”

“The Champion is content to wait for this venture to end?” Solas asked.

“Hawke? Yeah. She hates red lyrium as much as I do. Besides, it's just to the Storm Coast. Not too far away.”

“Ugh. The sea. Just looking at it from a distance is enough to make me sick,” Dorian grumbled.

“It would be best to trail it until we root out all the red lyrium before the trail goes cold,” Aslaug replied to Varric. “The Emerald Graves are still closed to us as of now until we can afford to station more soldiers there. The Storm Coast is all we have to weaken Corypheus's army.”

“I'm surprised you aren't more concerned about finding Corypheus's whereabouts,” Solas observed mildly.

“Corypheus, for the time being, has vanished. His red templars and that blighted lyrium, has not.” Aslaug tugged out a strip of jerky from a bundle. “I say we go after what we can see immediately and weaken him. He underestimated us at Havenhold and it saved our lives. Will he do so again? I won't count on his ego to rescue us again if it comes to it.” Her nose wrinkled. The meat was seasoned sweetly, with honey and pepper. Not her favorite. Iron Bull favored it.

“I agree, however, I do not believe it would be wise to allow Corypheus to slip away from the Inquisition's focus. He was defeated and humiliated, particularly by the history between your peoples, and he will strike again. Perhaps he learned from his mistake, but if he believes himself to be a god...” Solas trailed off.

“If he does strike again soon, then we will fall,” Aslaug confirmed. “But his troops were decimated by the mountain.”

“If this Samson has any brains, he's going to want to bulk up before he goes after the Inquisition. At the moment, they don't have the numbers or the morale to go after us again. Although I don't know whether or not those things can have any morale. Mm. Point still stands.” Iron Bull pointed his chin at Aslaug's jerky and she handed him a strip. “Thanks.”

“And Corypheus,” Varric whistled. “He's always been a little slippery. He won't surface unless he has an obvious advantage. And honestly, I don't know that he does.”

“Besides the enormous dragon that might as well be an archdemon from the sound of it?” Dorian drawled.

“Dorian,” Felix scolded. “But he does have a point. Will Skyhold withstand the dragon?”

“Possibly,” Solas murmured. “From what I can verify, it has withstood countless other battles and weathered terrible things. In time, Skyhold will be a force against Corypheus, but it must be tended to. Repaired. Renewed.” Aslaug's eye caught on the snag of Solas. She idly pondered what he could have seen in those dreams of his. What did Skyhold look like in the land of dreams? He'd shared a dream with her once - although that had been a case of him seeking her out in the land of dreams instead of a conscious agreement - perhaps he would again. It was something to ask him another time. 

“So, we're still vulnerable,” Dorian buffed his nails against his jacket. “Of course, we Tevinters are poor sports and sore losers. I can assure you, from a distinctly personal and cultural point of view, that Corypheus will not attack so soon. It's the invasion of the south all over again, really. The venatori would have felt that sting on their backsides quite keenly, and I'm sure he's no different.”

Felix sighed and pressed his fingertips to his forehead.

“Look, do things how you're going to do them, boss. But the facts are: we can follow the red lyrium and take it out, cripple Corypheus's army. We can eliminate the ranks on the way. We might even find this Samson guy. But we have no idea where Corypheus is. I don't think anyone is going to forget who that asshole is.” Iron Bull listed and used his thick fingers to keep tally.

She gnawed on the sweetened meat.

“To the Storm Coast. We'll dig them out like a tick,” she said.

“Gross simile, but I'm with you on that War Paint.” Varric rubbed his hands together. “What do we have to eat?”

Dorian presented a sack of stale bread and dried meat with flourish. “I'm sure this is what the king of Ferelden eats. So, technically, fit for a king.”

…

The Storm Coast's weather hadn't changed since she'd trekked down there to recruit Iron Bull. Waves crashed angrily into rocks and the pebbled beach and the rain was a drizzle, but it was nonstop. Aslaug had luckily already packed away her untreated mantle, although being wet everywhere in her leathers was unpleasant. 

They closed two rifts – one spawned no angry spirits, while the other one bore a despair demon and wraiths. The despair demon had fixated on Felix, likely drawn to the bond he and Patience shared, and ignored Aslaug as its cold magic did little to her. She was built to withstand that much cold and more. More Inquisition soldiers set up camps near where the rifts had been closed.

They were escorted to the completed excavation site. “That's some fast digging,” Varric drawled.

The scout, one by the name of Greens, answered: “Most of it was done. Just the front door. The templars did all the digging. They're holed up tight, Your Worship, but we stand ready. We can storm it, if you like, or send a squad in -”

“Greens, is it?” she asked and continued when he nodded. “We will enter. Cullen said you have reason to believe this place is a key shipping dock for Corypheus's red lyrium?”

“Yes, Your Worship, but he believes that there's the possibility someone may know where Samson is hiding.”

“We'll go in first. Follow after us with a small team to scavenge the area.”

He stared. “You're going in first, alone?”

Aslaug blinked. “I'm not alone,” she gestured to her companions. “And we have experience fighting them in greater numbers.” The boy was nervous. First time afield against these things? Were the ones excavating the site the spare scouts, or the new recruits? She shuddered at the thought of them acting as the vanguard. No. They'd follow and learn.

Greens nearly immediately agreed, some of his agitation dissipating as he offered a half-hearted protest.

The door had been broken down to reveal a yawning cave that glowed eerily the closer they approached. They ducked around the remains of the door, and still that sheen followed them, growing brighter the further they went. No torches were needed in this place. Varric and Solas were the first to know why – Varric's comment of “Ah shit,” was on the heels of Solas's quiet gasp.

It was everywhere.

With a prickle of dread and urgency that slithered down her back, across her shoulders, she unconsciously sought out the eyes of Dorian who was already looking her way with the kind of fear they'd shared briefly in that terrible future. It was Redcliffe, all over. It was the beginning of what Redcliffe offered.

“I don't see any normal lyrium veins. How is it growing out of the walls?” Iron Bull asked.

“Don't ask me, I'm a surfacer. I didn't think lyrium _could_ grow above ground like this. The only place I've seen above ground like this...” Varric trailed off. His face looked sickly and he shook his head as if to shake off water.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Solas responded. He sounded breathless, as if reeling from a punch to the gut.

“And Redcliffe,” Dorian said. Aslaug whipped to face him. “It isn't as though that's our future. Knowing the reasons to avoid it might be good for everyone to hear. It's why we came back,” he said.

“Or saying its name could bring it to our doorstep,” she argued although it was tied to older beliefs she'd held. The future was not a god, or a spirit, or a person, but a state of the world – but she knew that some things did hear when their name was called. And they came.

“I won't deny we're dealing with what I quite frankly always regarded as otherworldly and even impossible – but I don't think tell anyone about what happened would be particularly damaging,” he soothed.

“Or it could incite chaos and generate a fearful desperation that may divide people. When threatened, masses will turn on whatever is the easiest target if only in hope of causing a subconscious distraction,” Solas snapped.

“We've got the main points: demon army, killing the Empress, and a lot of red lyrium. But details always help. Details can save you,” Iron Bull squinted.

“Yes,” Solas acknowledged. “Or they may damn you.”

“Let's argue when we're out,” Varric wheezed. His color looked fine, but he had sweat along his temples and appeared somewhat distracted. “Let's find these templars and put them out of business. I hate being near this stuff.”

Unconsciously Aslaug fingered her stone axe. The home and throne of Korth would keep her, as it kept her in Redcliffe against impossible odds, as it kept her when she had been marked, as it kept when Korth himself had answered in a fury and buried Havenhold to rid them of their enemy. Somehow seeing all the red lyrium here made that future so much more real. They weren't simply given a glimpse of what could happen if the Inquisition failed. They were shown what was beginning.

“Varric, are you well?” she asked. He obviously wasn't.

His exhale was meant to be some form of laughter but it fell short. “I'm just not a fan of this song and dance, War Paint. Let's get this over with.”

The path to the templars was narrow and rocks jutted out at every turn. Red lyrium curled up, blossoming like jasmine from vines in the spring. There was no sign of a main deposit as of yet.

“They're like red hogweeds,” Varric explained when Felix asked him. “There's a parent – or a deposit – and it spreads out as far as it can, and then throws off a single branch and that just repeats for forever I guess. Get rid of the main deposit, and the rest just dies off. Whatever is left crumbles, and they can't make more. That's what regular lyrium does, anyway.”

Felix too looked discomforted. “This place...” he started and then stopped. “She hears it. There's a song here, but something _wrong_ is singing.”

Aslaug rested a tentative hand on his shoulder. It had been poor of her to neglect him among her companions. She even managed to eat with Sera and learn how to play cards with Blackwall, and listened to Vivienne’s advice about nobles. She was still conflicted over the fact that Felix carried Patience and she'd chosen to carry him. “Felix?”

His eyes were far away. “Don't listen too closely, Varric.”

“Great advice,” he grouched back.

Felix removed Aslaug's hand from him gently with a pat. “Patience believes it is for the best that we leave as soon as we can. We should move quickly.”

A creature stalked them. It clung to the cave walls and skittered up to the ceiling like a spider. It hissed something that might have been words once.

Varric put a bolt through it and Aslaug froze it mercilessly before she shattered it with a well placed it. Its blood was black and pieces of lyrium poured from it.

The deeper they went the more lyrium formations they spotted. Varric was prone to snap at anyone who asked him anything but his agitation was worse when the group was silent.

The cave system wasn't especially long or large, but it did require careful maneuvering. Traps had been lain and no one wished to be close to the lyrium. More creatures scaled the walls, slithering from between cracks in the rocks.

They bore a frightening resemblance to her memory of the Blight, when the darkspawn had crawled over Lurkerhold's walls and moved unnaturally, feet over hands and somehow gripping the walls and stone.

The system finally opened to a wide area. There was treasure and artifacts, a room, and an impossibly locked door on the far side.

Red templars met them. Some still spoke with words although their veins bulged grotesquely. Their commander was enormous and heavily corrupted. Lyrium sprouted from his shoulders, out of his jaw – he was as monstrous as the ones from Havenhold. He roared, pointed to them, and snarled out nothing Aslaug could understand, but clearly his troops did.

Archers met them – black bolts and red fletching, jagged arrowheads that pierced stone. Warriors with tower shields. More shadow things that crawled down the walls, their arms little more than cones of red lyrium.

The battle was short, if only due to the templars' hastiness. They found a key on the commander's body.

Felix healed the group but his blue lines remained. Patience, it appeared, was protective over him in this place. Aslaug could hardly blame her.

Varric was pale by the time they'd arrived at the small dock. More red templars, but they were swiftly crushed. The behemoth shattered when Aslaug froze it and Dorian lit it aflame.

There were small boats crowded along the dock, bobbing with the rough waves of the Coast.

The parent deposit of lyrium that had sprouted from a wall throbbed as though it had a pulse. A heartbeat. It was so close to the sea. She looked out at the gray water and wondered if lyrium could somehow grow in the water, or if a chunk broke off, would it be dropped somewhere on land far away and grow again, like a great seed?

Iron Bull smashed the deposit and it crumbled immediately.

Varric's color returned to him. He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Thanks, Tiny.”

“Ah, no problem. You look a little better.” The qunari smiled.

“Less like you're about to fall over,” Dorian added.

Solas watched Varric keenly. Felix cocked his head at the skald and his blue lines began to fade.

“So, War Paint. You're the proud owner of the most inconvenient dock in all of Thedas, what are you going to do with it?” Varric smiled weakly at her.

She made a considering noise. “I'll ask the advisors.”

“Easy answer, I like it.”

She scraped her foot along the remains of the templars and still found nothing except the odd gold. “No letters. No notes.” Cullen would be disappointed but at least he would rest easier with the knowledge that by taking out Valammar and the dock in the Coast, they were coming closer to cornering Samson and cutting the templars at the knees.

Varric cracked his back. “We took out a big deposit of red lyrium. If I could just find out how they're growing it...how it's coming out of the walls that might give us an advantage.”

“When Aslaug and I were in Redcliffe, we met the future Grand Enchanter Fiona. She had had red lyrium growing out of her, perhaps...they need people to do this? Mages? The lyrium there grew out of the floors, the walls.” Dorian's tone was disgusted.

“It grew out of people? Great. Just fantastic,” Varric muttered.

“You could ask Bianca,” Aslaug said as gently as she could. She didn't know their history except for what she had witnessed, but she knew heartache when she saw it.

Varric grunted. “Come on. Let's get out of here and let the juniors do their part. Maybe they'll find a letter.” He didn't wait for the others to follow and trudged out alone. 

"Aslaug," Solas appeared at her side. "In that future you and Dorian saw..." 

She waited for him to speak, for the words to tumble from his mouth. "You didn't want to know what happened before, do you now?" 

His brows furrowed, lips formed a frown. "I - no. Perhaps not. It is only...you've stated the Breach had worsened? That rifts appeared everywhere?" 

"It was a nightmare, Solas," she breathed. "I've no wish to see it come alive here." 

"No, of course not." He looked troubled. 

It was something he said earlier - "Details may damn you?" she asked. She wasn't sure how much water that held, but she understood that details painted a picture. Details brought something to life. Details made one pay attention beyond a single goal. If someone drew a sun, all anyone would see was a sun. But if they added in mountains and forests and deer, then there was so much more there. 

"Yes," he said. "Yes, they may." He regarded her with a focus she'd felt from him before - that push pull tug that drew her down, down, down to a place where she could almost bridge the gap completely and draw him to her. "We should follow, I doubt they would appreciate us lingering behind in the dark," he murmured. The moment slipped through her fingers, like catching early morning mist and trying to swallow it. 

They left side by side, following after their companions back into the gray twilight that ruled over the Storm Coast. 

 


	34. hellathen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hellathen - (elvish) noble struggle
> 
> Thank you to all the people who still comment, leave kudos, or even read TIFTM.  
> We're also going to be skipping around the red lyrium because why would it ever be straight forward and easy?

After taking the dock and destroying the main lyrium deposit on the Storm Coast, Samson's trail went cold again. No letters were found that could have specified where he was. There was no information about Varric's previous lead to Emprise du Lion. It became a matter of waiting for the Inquisition's opportunity to expand their reach into areas where the red templars were known to be skulking around.

The lonely, placid little island off the Storm Coast housed another dragoness. Her screeches echoed through the caves keenly. She didn't seem intent on moving her nest from the island, and only warily watched the Inquisition boats when they passed to map what part of the island they could. Electrical magic crackled from her very being in an obvious warning, and when one boat ventured too close, she used her powerful wings to rebuff them. The boat nearly capsized and they were forced to abandon their mapping duties.

Aslaug had informed the scouts to watch if they noticed other boats around the island, or if the dragoness attempted to leave, but otherwise left the great creature undisturbed. Her diet seemed to consist of fish and the wildlife in the Coast and her tastes didn't seem to lean in the direction of people. The scouts reported killing her dragonlings on the tip of the Storm Coast, but it was nothing they couldn't handle. No drake sightings. It was more than likely that the drakes had left and the dragoness's breeding cycle was once again dormant. More shards were discovered and to be sent to Skyhold for further study.

Without any further leads concerning Samson or red templar movement that they could immediately tackle or anything that even required their presence, Aslaug had turned them back to Skyhold. Such an abrupt return was not the best use of their time, but they had only made this side trip because it had been a verified lead. Besides, the Champion of Kirkwall waited for them at Skyhold with information about Corypheus and possibly the Wardens.

There were reports that Inquisition soldiers were rooting out various above ground lyrium deposits found near territories they were protecting. Solas informed his agents to keep the Inquisition updated on any red lyrium sightings.

The journey to Skyhold was uneventful but made for perhaps too much introspection on his part.

Aslaug spoke to Varric and Felix quietly for most of the journey although she sent him unconcealed looks whenever she caught his eye. She was waiting. Waiting for a remark, a signal, a sign that meant “yes, please continue, I am open,” and was not simply the nearly ambivalent “perhaps in time” that in truth had been anything but. She had cooled her interest in meantime, he noticed. There were other matters on her mind that were far more important and distracting than an elven apostate who'd happened to catch her eye. And yet, and yet...

She still looked. She still waited. It would be cruel to do, to accept any suit she offered. She had become a friend. The idea of being more had not remained rooted in his mind as a thing to be recoiled from, so much as it was thought of with regret and guilt. She didn't deserve such an illusion. It was a frightening concept to consider; that it would not be an illusion. It wasn't one now.

He couldn't forget the weight of her forehead pressing on his for comfort. She had asked and given it without thought. Deep dark eyes threatened to swallow him whole, to leave him gasping in a pit of quicksand that blinded him, that left him in the tight grasp of something wild and exotic. The feeling was something he wished to grasp with his hands, to feel its sensation with his fingers as though he truly had lost his sight. He wished to breathe in as if it had a scent he could recall. As though these sensations alone would give him the answer. To name this thing that had sprung, no, grown upon him. There were names for it, words and definitions he could list aloud, but to verbalize them made them real. Real as belief made Aslaug's gods real to her.

He was, Solas realized dimly at the end of their journey after he'd drank in more than his fill of her profile and voice, losing ground in this struggle. She stood at the bottom of his imaginary tree, hacking away with her stone axe to fell it so she might pull him down to her, beside her. He could feel the tree tipping, a slow and steady loss of equilibrium. But – no, that wasn't quite accurate. She was an axe to her enemies. She became something else for him. Those waters below his tree were vast and deep, and the tide was still rising.

As soon as their Herald of Andraste arrived at the gates Solas saw a collection of mages in the far corner near the stables where Blackwall had taken residence. The man was patient and tolerant enough to weather mages at his doorstep and they'd likely learned to shy away from busier areas like taverns to prevent a panic. The advisors had also gathered in the lower courtyard, oddly. The Commander appeared tense, but there was a hint of satisfaction in his stance. The Nightingale hid her face and murmured something to a smiling Lady Montilyet.

The Seeker met Aslaug beside her horse and spoke in a hushed tone to her. Aslaug responded in kind, a hint of incredulity in her voice. Solas strained to hear, but a bustle had apparently invaded Skyhold since their absence, and their reappearance had exacerbated it. People were whispering and gesturing, pointing to Aslaug in excitement. Several people had begun to weep openly. Whispers from his agents seemed to hold some credibility beyond favorable rumors.

Their mounts were taken back to the stables by servants and Aslaug was led away by Cassandra whose voice had risen in her anticipation. “We needed someone to lead this Inquisition, and you have. Not by choice, perhaps, but you've shouldered much of our responsibility. You've kept us safe at Haven, you led us to Skyhold, you closed the Breach. You may not believe Andraste and the Maker sent you, but I do. I need to believe. And so do many others.” Cassandra took the sword offered up by Leliana. Aslaug appeared to be frozen, face stonily indifferent. She was, he now understood after traveling with her for so long, unsure how to react. “Whatever gods you may follow, whatever else differs between us, you've been the Inquisitor in all but name. We would like to make it official.” The Seeker brandished the sword; wrought steel with a coiled dragon around the hilt. It was a clean, unflattering blade. An honest blade, one might say. As the Inquisition likely would strive to be.

The masses pressed in behind and around him. The comments from their companions had died down. He focused on her. She normally stood several inches taller than Cassandra, but her shoulders had rounded and her head dipped down.

“A barbarian from the mountains?” she asked in a dry tone. Her eyes, however, had never left the blade.

“You are...different, from most of us, I will grant that. But this isn't being given to you because of your mark. It is more than that. You are. You have done what you've been tasked with and more.”

Aslaug slowly took the sword from the Seeker. She waited, and seemed to realize people were waiting for her to speak. “Aye,” she said simply. She had slipped into the heavier dialect she'd slowly shed during her time in the Inquisition. There was no indication on her face, but from her body language Solas picked up that she was in some state of shock. “We will do what must be done.” There she was; that stern faced woman who saw the path before her and would walk it no matter what obstacles would lay before her.

Solas blended in with the all people who gazed up at the Avvar woman. The sun lit her from behind and emphasized the bright blue dots and lines of paint still on her face. It was odd to be united with the crowd in this moment. They had all viewed her as an unwashed barbarian in some fashion, and she had become a person to respect and heed.

An Inquisitor, a position that promised power and none could hold her accountable to any country or any person. He would have felt hesitant about anyone as Inquisitor, and admittedly Aslaug was not a master of subtlety or particularly knowledgeable about the world, but she was not cruel. Power and the position of command gave her pause, and seemed to bring her no especial glee. Such a person was easier to trust. It suited her. She didn't enjoy power for the sake of it. She would do well, he thought with a pang.

Her gaze focused on the crowd. “We will do this not because it is forced upon us to act, or because we have been asked to. We see before us our own destruction and have chosen to resist and fight back. I, and all of you here, will not lie down and wait in bed for the enemy to find us, for death to come to us.” Her voice escalated in the silent courtyard. Her tenacity bled through, finding the parts of her that still raged and grieved over Corypheus's actions.

Commander Cullen immediately rounded on his troops. “Inquisition, will you follow?” he bellowed. The soldiers let loose a cry that blared out like a war horn. “Will you fight?” He unsheathed his sword. The responding cry was even louder than the first.

“Ambassador, have our people been told?” Cassandra inquired over the noise.

“Yes, and soon, the world,” Josephine smiled largely.

She seemed to falter the slightest at Josephine's words, he saw, but the crowd's roar of approval was deafening and no one else seemed to notice.

…

A feast of a sort was held, bought by the coin of the nobility in order to perhaps draw the new Inquisitor's favor or soften her ire should they ever attract it. Baked salmon, smoked venison, roast druffalo haunch, buttered potatoes and wild rice with exotic seasonings. Dark greens, boiled turnips, whole onions, and other large spreads of vegetables covered the table. Dishes of simple desserts were laid out; rice pudding with sugared plums, a soft looking cake confection. Someone had even leaked the new Inquisitor's favorite drink. Dwarven ale steeped carefully with deep mushrooms was passed around the tables. The other Avvar partook, and so did many of the dwarves. Most of the other humans and elves declined after a small sip. Several appeared to enjoy the acquired taste, if only because it was the Inquisitor's favorite.

Solas needed to only catch a whiff of it before he immediately covered the top of his goblet to prevent a servant from pushing a sample upon him. It was wretched and pungent, some kind of terrible amalgamation between the simpler, salty ale most of Ferelden adored and the fetid scent of dried deep mushrooms.

The feast was bountiful despite the shabby condition of Skyhold and a welcome change after the grim affair of Haven and the mass funeral that had followed. The people of Skyhold were ecstatic for the chance to celebrate, particularly if it included the woman who they had come to see as their savior. They were filled with the kind of hysterical glee one might experience upon seeing a savior on the horizon, one who would stand against the powers that ruled or threatened the world. Solas had seen such events in the Fade. He had been at the center of such events, once.

Skyhold and the Inquisition had fallen behind her completely. Quiet, dark conversations about the Herald's qualifications had existed until Haven had fallen – she had never seen inside of a Circle before, how was she capable of judging what should happen to either of the remnants? She wasn't raised Andrastian, and so did not comprehend the Chantry or the role it played in politics and creating a bridge of understanding between disparate cultures. She was a barbarian from the mountains who followed false gods and idols. Those whispers had withered once it appeared she had died for them and was seemingly resurrected with a sense of purpose that renewed the Inquisition.

While her connection to the Inquisition grew, something else had changed on the tail of that development. Her relationship with her people, as he'd witnessed during the Inquisition's forced journey over the Frostback Mountains, had changed.

There was a kind of tension between Aslaug and the other Avvar that had begun after she had concealed the red templar creature from them and it had apparently worsened during their time away from Skyhold. Aslaug had been absent for part of the feast to ask how long they planned to stay with the Inquisition since the Breach had been closed. He observed her as she spoke with the representatives from the other Holds. Their voices were still jovial, but there was a noticeable chill in the air. The conversation held was brief, direct. Almost curt. It was normal within their society, but this didn't appear to simply be the speech of a plainspoken people. She'd returned in silence. The Avvar in the far flung table had sat with their backs to her. It was obvious what was transpiring or perhaps already had.

They hadn't sought her out for camaraderie near fires since they'd arrived at Skyhold but she had never spoken of it and seemed reluctant to even acknowledge it. He'd assumed at first that they felt uncomfortable approaching her with the typical mannerisms they might be accustomed to in another Avvar Hold. Of course, after she sat down, he realized how flawed his assumption was. They likely wouldn't care what anyone said or thought. They'd practiced supposed heretical rituals at Haven right in front of the Andrastians in the Inquisition without batting a lash.

The envious, lonely stares she'd directed at them made more sense. No small wonder she sought out the company of their companions more, or why she pushed herself to devour texts involving different cultures despite her literacy limitations. It was not solely that she had firmly placed her loyalty with the Inquisition and considered its people hers now; there was a marked desperation to her act. A tightness across his chest made Solas pause. She deserved comfort from a friend. Whether or not he should be that friend should be questionable. But in this moment it wasn't. It was the wine. It was the celebratory atmosphere. And her. And _her_.

Solas leaned over while the table erupted in excited whispers when Cullen sat next to a noble at the far end. “Aslaug, is something the matter?” He could see it plain as day. There was no logic behind his question, no motive other than to hear her speak, and to share in her grief.

“Not – not anything to worry over. This was expected.” She swirled the dregs of her ale around her tankard and finished it off. She opened her mouth to continue, the barest hint of sound escaped, but the table had erupted in noise. She exhaled sharply. “Come, let's drink outside. I can't even think in this mess.”

Solas placed a steady hand on her arm. “It wouldn't do well for the Inquisitor to leave a feast in her name.”

When she spoke, the words sounded as if they had been physically dragged from between her teeth. “As you say, Solas.”

He stretched his fingers out across her skin, laid more bare than most of the people thought was appropriate. She was warm and whatever chill lingered in Skyhold's halls was ignored by her.

She reached for his hand until he let it slip away quietly. She watched his hand leave her, want and longing and frustration in her eyes. The muscle in her jaw tensed. She met his gaze silently. It was an intimate stare and yet, he didn't break it or give any excuse.

“Will you stay with me?” she asked. She was unafraid. He could have said no. The fracture he'd told himself he would create for both of their benefits was there, only waiting for him to take advantage. He could take his wine and leave – no one would mourn the loss of the elven apostate at the Inquisitor's side. Some would welcome his absence as a chance to sit beside her. They had since ignored him once he'd sat beside her, and perhaps it was her resting stony expression that sent others skittering away earlier, for they hadn't attempted to converse with her. They likely wouldn't unless she spoke first. To draw the Inquisitor's ire was to draw a dragon's, it was to stand in a fire.

“Yes,” he said. The word tumbled from him unbidden. It was out, he had spoken, given breath to speak it. It was a visible thing hovering in the air, like breath in the freezing air or a moth fluttering in the light of a candle.

She didn't quite smile but was noticeably pleased when she leaned closer to murmur near his ear. “I like the wine.”

“Do you?” He had thought she found sweet wine repulsive. Her tastes seemed to rebel against nearly anything with a respectable amount of sugar.

“Mm. It's a nice color on you," she said with a grin.

Solas couldn't help the chuckle that spilled from him. It had to be the wine. “How flattering,” he demurred instead. This was so dangerous. This was frightening territory. The anticipation was wonderful.

She let out a contented hum. “Is it flattery if it's true?”

Solas swirled the wine in his goblet. His reflection stared back up at him. There was a hint of a smile. “Perhaps not, if you're stating it only as a fact. If that is indeed the case, I believe I stated before that time was a factor.”

She exhaled through her nose. She was fully distracted from her earlier melancholy. “Sorry, I wasn't – that isn't what I meant by it.”

She fumbled with her words, younger now that she had lost her assertiveness – but it would be unkind of him to continue the reluctant charade, that his considerations still required more attention. It was a delicate thing, the way he barely needed to tug or pause to appreciate her compliments before she was turned around on herself, unsure if she was outpacing him again.

“My apologies,” Solas amended. “I know what you meant by it, and I am not offended.” A little kindness for the burn, a salve that made her shift in place. It gratified him, which was an arduous task to admit even to himself, that she was caught in his gravity even as the water rose to his neck.

She smiled a little. “You're good at that,” she said. Her words were clear and though they were not loud, they still cut across the din of the feast. “Making me slip everywhere. I don't know what to do with myself.”

His eyes dropped to his goblet. His wine was gone. He traced the rim with a careful fingertip. She watched it like a hawk, as though it contained the secrets of life, as though it was the first kind thing she had seen in years. “It is not _always_ intentional,” he confessed. His restraint failed. The leash had grown to a slippery burden and so he failed to clutch it tightly. The water had soaked it through. It had grown unraveled and lay at his feet pitifully.

She watched his face again, the weight of her gaze like a hand touching him. He could feel the phantom contact to his jaw and ears, lips and eyes. “You do that on purpose?” she asked, sounding a little breathless.

In the Fade, he had seen spirits lure sailors to rocky shores at night when their sight was limited. These spirits, which appeared in hazy female forms, sang and danced above the foam. They lured the sailors to crash upon the rocks and would watch them drown. In the rare event, the sailor might survive the encounter and so would be left clutching onto stones for days, bewildered by the spirits and the sound of their melody. Most times, Solas had watched the sailors who had survived give in to the song, and would surrender to the ocean tide.

He should turn aside now and leave this space. It was not that her insistence had grown overwhelming, just as it had been that the sailors had been unable to resist the tide. It had been the sailors themselves, just as it was himself that had been slowly climbing down to the water to meet it. He should say no, but the thought of doing so left him with a bone deep need that would remain nameless.

“At times,” he murmured. He found himself displaying coy mannerisms without thought. Really, there was no thought in this moment, for even within a public place, with so many people around them, somehow this was ignored.

She giggled, a husky and low tone. She nodded acceptance at this game he had knowingly implied he had begun. “You're more sly than I first thought, but it suits you.” She drank what was left of her ale. “I don't mind a long chase so long as it is what you want.”

A surreptitious glance showed that the few nobles that had remained, the numerous soldiers and inner circle members still spoke amongst themselves. At the head of the table they were somewhat further from everyone else. He had no doubt that someone had caught at least snippets of their conversation. This flirtation was so audaciously public. She was shamelessly bold. But in her culture it was not a shameful dinner discussion, as she had proved before. Her volume wasn't meant to conceal anything, and the threat of discovery seemed to glance off of her. It internalized in him as a rush of warmth.

“It has been some time since I've...participated in anything,” he allowed finally. A dodge to an immediate blessing for no other reason than he admitted the coquetry was...pleasant.

“Has it been lonely? You've said before you were away from people, out in the wilderness by yourself.” Aslaug gripped her tankard. Her fingers pressed in tightly.

“No, I had my spirit friends to keep me company. But it has been something of a relief to have others to speak to, to share experiences.” He saw through that feigned nonchalance.

“Oh? A relief to share experiences?” Her husky voice was not an affectation. The sincerity alone was enticing.

“Among other things.” The flush from his wine still flared across the bridge of his nose, painted on his the tips of his ears and down his throat, but it remained bright and proud.

A serving girl seemed to materialize out of thin air and poured more ale in her tankard. Solas immediately retracted. He pulled away from her and set his fist before his mouth.

Aslaug shifted in place. She inhaled suddenly and sat back. Her eyes shut briefly. “It wasn't just flattery. It's a good color on you.” They hadn't forgotten where they were, but had ignored the repercussions. He was likely more aware of those than Aslaug.

He declined when the girl asked if he wanted more wine and requested water instead.

…

The night wore on and gradually the festivity died down. Several people paired off, and the Avvar left to camp out in the courtyard. Madame Vivienne continued to hold court amongst the few nobles who had stayed with the Inquisition since the beginning. Iron Bull, Dorian, and Felix had departed earlier to seek some form of familiar refuge at the Herald's Rest. Sera had vanished nearly right after the feast had begun and with her, so went several plates of food. Blackwall had disdained sitting with the nobility, but had found a comfortable atmosphere with the other soldiers. Skills and tactics were discussed. And women. Cole had enjoyed the feast from afar, Solas noted. All the happiness had drawn him to the party. Cassandra had eaten quickly and left, stating she had business to attend to. Solas believed she was just exasperated by the nobles that kept asking about her family. Varric had disappeared not long ago when several people claimed to have bought and read his books.

Aslaug had drank more ale than perhaps had been wise, and she still shot him heated looks, but nothing else of note was passed between them. They casually discussed Skyhold and the repairs it needed, what could be done to improve it. The dormitories needed work, support beams and windows had to be replaced. Josephine needed a break of some kind, Aslaug insisted.

The hall had slowly emptied. There were a great many congratulatory praises sent to the new Inquisitor as they left.

She and Solas sat drinking water without speaking for a small time. She watched the line of Avvar leave the hall, nods of respect and salutes were held, but it was quite the cool affair.

She spoke suddenly. “You know, when a woman is stolen from her Hold, her birth-Hold no longer trusts her. She belongs somewhere else. She may not be an enemy, but the minor gods can vary from Hold to Hold. Some rituals are different, some values too.” Her voice grew thick, eyelids drooped as though heavy.

“Ah. You are being viewed as an outsider by your people?” he asked as gently as he could. The incredulity of facing people who should be yours, who held your history as their ancestry only to be cast away, ridiculed for holding knowledge, for voicing criticism. It was not the same. It would be to compare a grain of rice to a field. But he could sympathize.

“I knew this was coming...but this isn't...I wasn't stolen by a man from another Hold. It's different, being stolen by another land. I don't regret the choice. It just – it just hurts right now.” She inhaled and cleared her throat. “I talked, and talked about it and convinced myself it was going to happen so that I might prepare myself but now that it is... Well. I have no words. I feel grief. I feel angry, though I shouldn't. They are my people and if it were me in their place, I would be suspicious too.”

“Will they welcome you once the Inquisition is done?” he wondered. Things would change once the orb was back in his possession, but he felt a distinct ache at the thought of Aslaug being cast out by her own people for something that she logically could not control if Corypheus was to fall. He ached at the thought of her cast out regardless.

She sucked on her teeth. “I don't know. But,” she gave a breathy laugh, “I don't even know if I want to remain in one Hold forever now. The world is...big. I'd want a home to go back to of course. I don't enjoy all of it, but the novelty alone...and I never knew how much I didn't know before and now I want to.” She shook her head and tapped her tankard on the table. “I've got wanderlust from being with the Inquisition. Strange, isn't it?”

Solas smiled at the flush that had drawn itself across her face from her drink. “You're curious about what's beyond the borders you've grown within. It's only natural and hardly wanderlust.” They'd had this discussion before, but he supposed it had come to be her present reality.

“Hm.” She rolled her neck. “Is that why you roam, Solas? Are you looking for things you have never seen before? That northern place you come from, is it very different from the south?”

“Yes,” he said. The honey wine had made his tongue looser, surprise of surprises. “Very different. Everything is very different.”

“You sound disappointed about that.” Her curiosity had surfaced, intrigued by the tone of his voice more than likely. He cleared his throat to ward off the sound of yearning.

“Yes,” he admitted. The truth seeped out like poison from bleeding wound. Perhaps her vulnerable self, the acceptance of her grief and seeing her race toward a future she could not see, made it easier to confess such things. Perhaps it was still the wine. “I had hoped things would be better. I had expectations I suppose.”

“Yes,” she echoed. “It can be. But I disappointed a lot of people by being the Herald. Everyone somewhere is disappointed about something. I bellyached the loudest about some things. I regret it now. What I thought was simple common sense came out unkind. There are things I will never understand, things I could never abide, things I think are wrong. But they are different, and I am different. I've learned I must try to know them, as I would have them know me. Should – should we not try to understand? The world is a big place. It would be so lonely to see all of it and not at least try.”

Solas sat straighter, no longer simply lulled by the cadence of her voice. “That is...not untrue. But things are not so simple although I wish they were.”

“It can be,” she stated confidently. She sent him a sidelong glance, but let the conversation stop there. Perhaps the ale had affected her as surely as the wine had him.

 


	35. saga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> saga - legend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while! I hadn't realized how long until I I was hip dip in writing another fanfic for a different fandom. My bad, guys. Thank you, as always, for the kudos, for the comments, and honestly just taking time to read this massive train wreck. Love you all, you're awesome! 
> 
> Also, this is just a transition chapter to move the plot along and give a nod to the rest of the crap going on - no romance, no action, not even Avvar lore stuff, sorry about that.

  
  


Inquisitor. Aslaug wasn't sure she had been told all of what that role encompassed or what was going to be expected of her. None of the advisors or Cassandra had gone into detail. She was under the impression it meant a leader of some sort, a thane. A thane without an augur or gods and spirits, and no unified understanding of the world.

It hit her again, as it had before. One would think a single epiphany would be enough, one great realization would finally register. But she had always been stubborn, thick-headed to a fault.

She knew she would never be viewed the same among the Avvar again, and it was tinged with betrayal – by accepting this, that was what happened, hadn't it? But what else could she do? What else was there? She was here now – and, and that was all that mattered now. She would always be who she was; she was stone and sky and winter and she would never truly change. She could grow though. She already had. That was different. It was _different_.

The Avvar had made it clear the night of the feast that they would be returning to their Holds come morning, and would be reporting their thoughts and feelings about the Inquisition, about the god-marked one, about the Inquisitor. It was likely, said the representative of Harthold, that the Avvar as a whole would ally with the Inquisition should the time come again. It was not written in the Stone, but it was something.

The lines had been drawn, and she had not been offered a seat beside them. It was just as well, she supposed as she thought back on her exchange with Solas. Whether she liked everywhere she had been was still up for debate, if she were truthful, but the fact that she could go to these distant places and _see_...it was nothing she had ever expected to anticipate or experience. She would forever love and long for the Frostbacks no matter where the Inquisition took her. But she didn't feel as though life began and ended there any longer. She would still wish for her spirit to be given to the Lady, for her body to be returned to Korth, at her end.

But before her were trails her people had not tried in hundreds of years, trails that held no meaning or history to them. They existed in a world she knew little of – and what a thought, that her life would have taken this turn. How could she not wonder, not wander, not want?

The previous night had been a testament of how everything had changed.

Wearing the gift Josephine had given her seemed natural, an acknowledgment of all that had occurred. She abandoned the supposedly fashionable scarf the outfit had come with – it was hot and itchy. She'd also had to stress the leather around her thighs so she could fit into them properly. She would need to release the seams and stitch it herself, maybe with gurgut webbing as it lasted much longer than catgut. She felt that if she squatted in these they would burst apart. She was not modest about her body, but the other people in Skyhold might be bothered. Cullen came to mind. He'd likely run from the room if he ever witnessed that. When she ran a finger along the straining seams, she wondered what face Solas would make. Would he turn, to afford her some modesty she had no need for, but he believed she might? Or would he trace the ruined material, to where her bare skin showed, and wonder what she looked like completely naked? Would he want to see the scars that told her life story? Or would nothing change at all, for it wasn't something he cared to see?

A knock at her door called her attention, and when she swung the door open, it revealed someone she hadn't thought to see so early. Varric whistled upon seeing her and winked. “Nice outfit, your Inquisitorialness.”

“It's a bit tight.” She tugged at the material straining against her thighs.

“Eh, Ruffles can get someone to let it out. Don't worry about it.” Varric leaned against the wall beside her door. “You must be wondering why I'm here.”

“Yes, I am. Why are you here, skald?” She crossed her arms over her chest and noted that the top seemed to creak in protest around her shoulders.

“Well, I've got someone who you need to meet. She wanted to give you a little time in light of your new position. Congratulations, by the way. I never got to say anything to you since it happened. I would have said something at the feast but you and Solas looked a little...serious.” He arched his eyebrows pointedly.

Aslaug tried not to smile. “Mm. You're all probably lucky the serving girl interrupted us.”

Varric immediately raised a hand. “Okay, happy for you two crazy kids, but also – I don't need to know more than that and am uncomfortably aware that you don't mind sharing more. Let's change the subject to something a little more easy to tackle: Hawke's waiting.”

“And Cassandra has yet to discover her?” She surely would have heard about it if Cassandra found Hawke – some sort of conspiracy between the advisors because they were clearly aware of her. Aslaug was almost impressed. She also hoped the Seeker would not discover them in meantime.

“Cassandra has been dropping so-called 'hints' that she knows who my contact is, but Hawke's been keeping out of sight. I think Nightingale might be helping with that. She probably doesn't want the Inquisition to see the Seeker _interrogate_ me. Again.”

“What makes you think Leliana is covering your tracks?”

“Oh you know, the little things. Like that dagger through the note I found next to my bedside.” Varric shrugged.

She immediately rubbed her forehead. “Varric...”

“It's fine. She's just following basic spy protocol. She already knew Hawke was coming this way. She's also...not really happy with me over Bianca and the red lyrium.” His hand found the back of his neck, fingers bunched.

“That wasn't your fault. The blame of it lies at her feet, but what she discovered needed to be known.” She was sure of that much, at least. To know that lyrium could get the Blight made it all the more dangerous. It created more questions than answers, but at least they knew there were new questions to answer.

“Maybe. But was it worth this mess with the templars? I don't know.” He jerked his head toward the stairs and led her down. “I told Hawke about you,” he started but then seemed hesitant to continue. “She's my friend, Inquisitor. She's a good one to have your back in a fight. I know I've played it off that she joined the mages because she believed in it, but the facts are a little more disappointing. Considering what I write about, that shouldn't come as a surprise. Hawke only ever got involved in things because she saw no alternative to avoid it, considering her sister was in the middle of it. She would have avoided fighting for either side at Kirkwall.”

She peered down at him. “Varric. You're nervous.”

He sighed. “She's a hero, I know that much. She just doesn't seem very...heroic. She got involved _for_ her sister after she pled to Hawke to help the mages.”

Aslaug's brow scrunched together as she recalled the ending of the Champion's last battle in Kirkwall. “But...she let Anders leave alive.”

He didn't quite sigh, but there was a level of exasperation to it that carried the weight as though he had. “Yeah. She did.”

“Was he her man?” she asked.

“Well, no. As far as I know she's sort of been...taking care of him since everything went to shit. Hell, maybe she felt guilty. I don't know, Inquisitor. Hawke's a funny one. She just wanted it all to be over. I don't know what I would've done in her place, well no. I know. It's what I already did. There was a lot – I mean...it's complicated, War Paint. I'm just saying you're in a position she was in once. She might say things. Try not to be too offended.” Varric tried smiling, but he faltered once he opened the door.

A woman in armor was sitting on the War Room's map of Thedas playing with a particularly wicked dual-bladed dagger.

A true showman to the end, Varric announced in a loud, jovial voice, “Inquisitor, might I introduce you to the Champion of Kirkwall, Hawke.”

Hawke slipped to the ground. “Inquisitor! Pleasure. I've heard all about you in Varric's sordid letters.”

He rolled his eyes. “Sordid, please. I only mentioned lyrium a few times.”

“Mm, I can't help it if it's one of those things that gets me hot and bothered,” Hawke said brightly with an empty smile. “So, _As_ laug,” she emphasized Aslaug's name incorrectly but she didn't reproach her for it, “I've heard through the grapevine that you had a bit of a tussle with an old friend of mine.”

“Corypheus.” The mere name of the creature stoked the place that housed all the fire in her. But its heat had cooled, although the intensity remained. Cold was winter-fury and it ate down to the bone where not even flames could touch.

“You know, I may not know many things in life. How long it takes bread to rise, how many templars it takes to fix and or ruin a Circle, or how many female blood mages ever take advantage of their natural cycles, but I am very, very well versed in how to kill someone. You know. Kill them dead.” Hawke tapped on the map. “I killed Corypheus, Inquisitor. He was a bastard to kill, but he did die down there. We didn't just merrily let him out of his prison so he could go on to become a mass murderer who is now apparently the master of a Blighted dragon. I assure you I was not intent on making a Tevinter wet dream come true.”

“I believe you.” Had Hawke been expecting accusations? She hadn't accused Varric, for it was not his fault and it was not Hawke's fault that Corypheus could apparently be killed but not die. Such things were, she'd grudgingly realized after Varric's brief tale, the realm of gods. He was uncomfortably close to being one, more so than perhaps most people beyond her own understood.

Hawke's smile dropped. The corners of her mouth were still turned up. It was eerily blank and inanimate on her face. “Oh good. Look, whatever I can help with I will. Whatever questions you have, I'm all ears.” She put her fingers behind her ears and wiggled them.

“What is he? He had red lyrium growing from him but it wasn't killing him, and he claimed he was from ancient Tevinter, yet we've have found nothing about him.” Aslaug tried relaxing around the rogue, one eye warily on the woman's blades and clawed gauntlets. She looked fast. She'd brought down dragons, hordes of qunari, battle mages and tower-keepers with those blades and her quickness.

“He is what he said he is, I think. He controlled the Grey Wardens using their physiology against them and I believe he body jumped or something to Lanius, Inquisitor.” Hawke's eyes squinted and she leaned closer to whisper, “And do you know what they call the things that control Blights?”

“Yes, but he isn't one. And Leliana claims that the dragon he controls isn't an archdemon, but it is corrupted somehow.” It may as well have been though, for all the damage it seemed capable of. The great creature soaring above Havenhold, breathing corrupted fire and lyrium. A god of death in its way. But it obeyed Corypheus, a man who may or may not be mortal.

“He's from Tevinter. I imagine they're all dramatic and death centric over there. The fact that he controls a dragon is probably some kink of his.” Hawke grinned but it was without humor. Varric frowned at her.

“Hawke,” he warned, “he's killed a lot of people.”

The woman tsked but let her facial expression smooth out. “Oh Varric, a lot of people die all the time. Death is an industry you know. It just so happens we don't like this one because he's some sort of Blight corrupted asshole and isn't technically in the business.”

“ _Hawke_ ,” Varric stressed.

Aslaug had thrown her shoulders back, mouth pinched. “Champion. I lost much of my Hold to that thing only months ago. Have a care.” Lost. A kind word for the death those in Havenhold had suffered. She could still smell the stink of blood and shit and fear and burning flesh if she thought too hard about Havenhold. Could still feel the wash of heat from the dragon's fire if she concentrated, the screams, the pleading, and the crying. To have Hawke disinterestedly mock what had happened – help or no she wouldn't suffer such a slight against the people she had failed, that had died for the same cause.

Hawke blinked languidly, like a lizard sunning in the early hours. “I know what happened at Haven, but you know that isn't on you, right Inquisitor? That isn't down to you,” she explained almost nonchalantly.

Aslaug met Varric's eyes and he winced but nodded encouragingly. “Thank you,” she said flatly. In all of Varric's stories Hawke did outrageous things, said outrageous things, but she had thought it was all the power of exaggeration on Varric's side. Or that it had been solely attributed to the whimsical heart of a roguish woman with a tendency for mischief. This...was neither of those things. There was a hollowness in Hawke, although whether that had always been a part of her nature or after she had adapted to life in Kirkwall, Aslaug was unsure. She did not appreciate it at the moment, regardless.

“You're on top of the world right now and everyone is watching. You're a savior, a hero. A _champion_.” Her mouth had formed a smile that didn't meet her eyes. “Save everyone you can, defeat the enemy, but keep in mind that people are always waiting for a hero to fail. The masses love it. All that drama. Don't forget that you'll probably have to defend yourself against the people you saved.”

“Hawke, Maker's breath, can you please shelve this?” Varric finally groaned.

“She deserves a little heads up. Bad enough she's an Avvar woman.”

“What?” Aslaug's eyes narrowed.

“Oh – I don't find anything wrong with that. My family was saved by the Witch of the Wilds you know. But the public finds everything they didn't like about you in the beginning and twists it once you fall so you appear to have never saved anyone at all or did any good.” Hawke's tone was knowing and almost pitying. “The only heroes people love in the end are dead ones.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, barely loud enough for a whisper. Hawke had come to give them information, not to wake those doubts Aslaug was still struggling to put to rest.

“Just giving you some friendly advice. Someone has to. It might as well come from the person who watched her second home burn to the ground and was blamed for it after. I'm just saying, cozy up to them and enjoy it meantime. Because after this is done, they'll be decrying you as an Avvar heretic and demand that you be sent to a Circle. Or just to face the chopping block.” Hawke moved around them to the door, but she paused abruptly, spinning on her heel. “You know, you look very familiar, Inquisitor. Have you got any family in Ferelden, by any chance?” Her eyes curved merrily.

Aslaug clenched her jaw. “No. Where are you going?”

“Ah, you must have one of those faces.” Hawke swung the door wide open while Varric cringed beside Aslaug. “Not to worry, Nightingale has me set up in one of those decrepit towers for the time being. I'll be around Skyhold until the Warden contacts me again.”

“I thought he already did,” Aslaug barked. Her temper frayed like a twisting rope in saltwater and the sun against the indifferent attitude of the rogue.

Hawke clucked her tongue. “Inquisitor, my Warden is being hunted by _other_ Wardens for this information. He's trying to find somewhere safe to meet us. He's in between dodging being executed on sight.”

“You didn't say anything about that. You told us before you came here that you knew more about Corypheus, about red lyrium and yet so far only Varric has spoken of it. But you also had information about the Warden, and now suddenly you know nothing new? I thought this was the purpose of your visit to Skyhold?” Aslaug tried not to grind her teeth.

Hawke's bland expression didn't budge. “Well, you got me. Other than what I just said, I have no further information. The Wardens went missing when Corypheus popped up like a particularly ugly daisy, there's none in Ferelden save for those in the Amaranthine Fortress but they don't like to talk, not that there were many, and even the Orlesians have reported some of their own missing. _This_ Warden has more information but at this point in time, I'm waiting for his word. But, if I'm here then he can reach me more easily once he finds his proper little nesting spot and you and yours will know immediately.”

“Hawke,” Varric snapped. Hawke flapped her hand at Varric and bowed to Aslaug.

“Ever so sorry, my lady. I shall remove myself from your sight lest I become a true eyesore.”

Aslaug watched the woman leave, torn between frustration and true anger, and unable to distinguish which would express itself should she speak. Her teeth ground loudly enough that they squeaked.

When the woman vanished from her sight, she rounded on Varric. He immediately held his hands up. “I'm sorry. I warned her to be on her best behavior but she -” Varric made a obscure gesture. “She has unaddressed issues with figures of authority.”

“Varric that woman is our only connection to the Grey Wardens. You said she would have information on them, and Corypheus. Thus far, I haven't heard anything new.” She crossed her arms. Her voice was not quite thunderous, but it was audible enough that she heard the maids in the cellar scuttle away from the stairs, possibly running from their duties to prevent getting caught up in the storm brewing.

Varric scowled. “War Paint, she doesn't have much more information. I thought she might've, but it looks like that wasn't the case. That was my mistake.”

“Then when will her Warden send word? Why do they not have an area picked yet?” Her eyes narrowed. She thought back to the chats with Josephine when they had both been pleasantly tipsy and discussed the politics of the world. “Or did she lie to me about that?”

“I'll talk to her. She just has trouble trusting people after everything that happened in Kirkwall. If she is, then she probably has a reason for it. She's been protecting his identity and information for a while,” Varric placated. “Not to mention...you know, with the Seeker around, she's not happy about being cooped up in Skyhold with all the people who were hunting for her.”

“Do so. We don't have the time to play games about who holds what leverage or the whys of it and I don't care to play. I want to know where the Wardens are and if they are assisting Corypheus, or as you mentioned before, if he is controlling them.” She felt watched. She flicked her eyes to the hall Hawke had disappeared down. Instead of finding Hawke eavesdropping, it was Cassandra who stood at the end, her expression a tempest of fury. “Cassandra -” Aslaug began.

“You lying little shit!” The Seeker was on the move, full-tilt at Varric. Aslaug had seen giant bull elks in season that were less intimidating than the sight of Cassandra in that moment. Varric cursed and ducked around Aslaug. She immediately set her hands up before her to ward off Cassandra's wrath. The Seeker snarled, lip curled in utmost contempt. She glowered down at Varric. “You knew where Hawke was all along!” She made to reach for him, but he recoiled quickly. “You _knew_ , Varric. You knew and you lied to all of us. _We needed her_ – we needed you to believe in us!”

“I was protecting my friend!” he hurled back. “And it isn't about that anymore. She's here, she's helping. We're all on the same side.” He stepped to the side of Aslaug. The tension had escalated that it was thick enough to wade through; it was marshlands all over again. “And can you blame me for lying? For keeping this secret, after what you people did to her? After what you did to me, to _Kirkwall_?! You never gave me any reason to trust in the powers that be in the Chantry.”

“No, we all know whose side you're on, _Varric_ ,” Cassandra spat. Her tone fluctuated from heated to pleading. “After the war, we needed her. We could not find the Hero of Ferelden, and we needed someone at the Conclave – someone who the people looked up to. If she had been there, perhaps Most Holy -”

“It was never her war, Seeker! She didn't want it. It burned her home to the ground, stood at her door and wouldn't leave! It was never hers.” Varric threw his hands up. He met Cassandra's eyes squarely. “She deserves some peace, too.”

“It became her war the moment she became involved. She should have – she...” Cassandra stopped herself firmly and shook her head. She had taken several steps back to pace, hands balled into fists at her side.

“You know what I think? If she had been at the Conclave, she'd be dead too,” Varric rasped.

The two stared at one another unflinchingly. “It is done now, both of you,” Aslaug instructed quietly. She could hear the sounds of Skyhold waking for the day beyond their corridor and the doors.

Cassandra shook her head. “But Inquisitor -”

“It is done,” she repeated more firmly. “Whatever happened, happened. Hawke is here now and Varric will talk to her, and we will find out where the Warden is. And Cassandra, we will speak of Therinfal and the demon of Envy you encountered.”

Cassandra grimaced. “Do not treat me like a child, Inquisitor.”

“What a shame it is I must if only to keep you both from squabbling as such.” It was bad enough she had raised her voice to Varric and Hawke. She could hardly allow this infectious anger to spread to all of her Holdmates. It would bring bad luck. Or the god of Compassion would investigate what the source of such turmoil was. “Varric, go. Go speak to Hawke. Summon the advisors when she's told you what we need to know.” He hesitated, looking up at her, then with a frown at Cassandra, he left. The doors shut heavily behind him.

The Seeker watched his progress with a hard stare. Her fists slowly uncurled. When she did speak, she sounded remorseful instead of angry. “I'm such a fool. I truly believed him when he said he didn't know where she was. But no. I was taken in as though I was reading one of his stories.” She sighed and hung her head. “A Seeker of Truth, indeed. How can I claim to be that when I cannot even learn to even look in front of me?”

“Would it help to know that none of us really know what we're doing, aside from Josephine?” Aslaug asked with half a smile. She empathized more with the woman than Cassandra knew. To speak the truth as one would see it, only for half-truths, lies, misunderstandings to cloud what that truth was, what it meant. She knew the sight of someone out of their element because that same face regarded her silently from the reflection of her morning bath water everyday.

“Hah. Is that supposed to be comforting? I have no regrets you know. You've made choices I don't agree with, but you are who we needed. I did not mean I wished anyone to take your place – I still hoped that if someone had been there with Most Holy, then perhaps she would still be alive. A belief that I think was fueled with denial. It is unlikely she would have survived regardless.” She leaned back into the stone wall and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

Aslaug laid a hand on Cassandra's shoulder and squeezed.

Cassandra clucked her tongue half-heartedly. “I do not need your pity, Inquisitor.”

“It isn't pity. Sympathy, more like.” But she removed her hand from the Seeker's person anyway. “I meant it. We need to talk about Therinfal. I had waited for you to come to me about it, but you haven't.” She couldn't deny she had been curious since they had returned to Havenhold before that fateful battle anymore than she could deny the slight disappointment that Cassandra would not have spoken about her undoubtedly harrowing experience with any of the companions including herself.

“It was a failure. As we have discussed. Majority of the templars turned on us, and we could only escape with the precious few of the Order. The demon that had used Lord Seeker Lucius's likeness had fled, and I do not know where. The templars I could not convince to join the Inquisition killed as many of the protesters as they could. Most of them were infected with red lyrium. We ran to Haven,” Cassandra reported shortly.

“Envy. You said the god of Compassion - Cole - saved you from it,” Aslaug insisted. Cassandra closed her eyes with a heavy exhale.

“Yes. The Envy demon had hoped to entrap you. It wanted your likeness. It impersonated others in order to make me falter against it. Commander Cullen, Leliana, Josephine. But it had not wanted me. It had wanted you and was thus enraged when you were not the one at the gates. But it nonetheless tried to possess me in hopes that it would eventually gain access to you.” She folded her arms behind her back. “It was a difficult battle. Cole, Compassion, helped me push it into retreat and so we were able to leave with our lives. He tried to arrive at Haven earlier, Inquisitor. But he had crossed paths with Envy and had been forced to engage it.” Her face crumpled and her voice thinned. “If I had been able to kill Envy, Cole would have arrived at Haven earlier and our forces would have had more warning; we might have been able to evacuate more people. It is my fault, Inquisitor.”

“There isn't much we could have done against that dragon, Cassandra. It wasn't your fault.” The winding tightness in her breast coiled. Perhaps if she heard aloud enough, she would believe it, just as Aslaug hoped if she continued to hear that it was Corypheus’s doing she would no longer wake up with the taste of smoke in her mouth.

Cassandra cleared her throat. “I had not approached earlier out of shame. It was not a reflection on you, or what you have done so far. I am here until the end, Inquisitor. I will not always agree with you, but I do not doubt you.”

“Things happened very quickly, Cassandra. I know.” Fast enough to be dizzying – to mourn, then not mourn, to prepare for a role she had never been groomed for in any way, and now to be a person with the importance who could command an army. “Have you spoken to Cole since coming here?”

“Yes. I had – I did not know what to make of him at first.”

“And now?” Aslaug flipped a stray braid over her shoulder.

“I have been taught certain things over the years. I am still uncertain, but I know that he truly does want to help. To be honest, I am surprised you have not spoken to him yet.”

“I did once. It was brief. He's been at the healing tents. I didn't want to interfere with his purpose here.” She shifted on her feet awkwardly. “And it is intimidating to have a god before you in the flesh, free beyond a corpse.”

Cassandra grunted. “You may as well seek him out on your own. Or have him join you beyond Skyhold.”

Aslaug gave her an incredulous look. “I can't command him. I must ask – and there are rites to do so, offerings, chants, singing, but he hasn't told me what he wishes. He's not a typical Hold god so it is...more difficult for me to approach him familiarly.”

“I do not believe he requires that. He seems to be satisfied just being somewhere where he is able to help.”

 

…

 

Madame Vivienne sat beside her in the middle of breaking her fast. The woman slid beside her on the bench gracefully, robes fluttering in a nonexistent breeze, with her body poised and the epitome of elegance in the morning sun. She had not switched her robes, Aslaug noticed. Felix and Dorian, and all the other mages she had seen began using furs or heavier cloths to ward off the Frostbacks' chill. Solas had not, and it seemed Vivienne chose not to as well. They both used warming glyphs, sewn or drawn on their clothes.

Solas had his on his feet wraps, she'd noticed once when he'd unraveled them to wash.

“Good morning, my dear,” Vivienne murmured. One finger traced the lip of a goblet Aslaug knew had not come from the Inquisition's surplus. She picked at her small plate of soft honey bread, a colorful medley of winter apple, highland berries, and edible flowers. A small jar of dark honey sat beside it.

Aslaug's own quickly dwindling plate had once been piled high with roasted ram, a thick flatbread heavily seasoned in chervil, and leftover broth made from the bones and fat of the various meats from the previous night. “And you.” She drained the broth quickly, and sipped at her goat's milk. “What brings you here?”

Truthfully, oftentimes Madame Vivienne didn't wish to go _gallivanting_ , as she called it, with the rest of them and instead seemed preoccupied with the Inquisition's political work. She had never been rude to Aslaug, really, although she clearly didn't think much of her culture or of the companions she had made. Still, the woman had her respect. She'd seen her fight with that spirit blade of hers and she was a sight to behold on the battlefield.

“You do, darling.” She offered Aslaug a slice of apple, which she took but declined the spoonful of honey. “You see, you've been made Inquisitor and the Chantry has expressed...concerns, and made such concerns public. While we may know better, we are your inner circle. Those further than your immediate acquaintances made think these accusations hold some grain of truth to them.”

“What accusations?” What had the Chantry accused her of now? She thought of the Fereldan book that had rendered the Avvar people as nothing more than trolls storming the countryside raping and killing indiscriminately. As cannibals – the Avvar had no history of consuming the flesh of another for power. That was the Chasind.

Perhaps they could accuse her of more than she thought.

“That because you were not properly taught by the Circle, you cannot be trusted as the Inquisitor as you are possibly a maleficar, and most certainly an apostate. Not to mention that you have earned some enemies by choosing to shelter the mages entirely.” Vivienne primly plucked the honey bread apart with her fingers.

“It was mentioned before that I would need to undertake a teacher, to set these worries aside,” she replied.

“Yes, and I have come to volunteer my expertise in this affair. I've seen you fight, Inquisitor. It somewhat resembles a specialization taught in the Circle.” Vivienne tapped on the hilt strapped to her thigh; it was the hilt of her spirit blade.

Aslaug met her eyes. “You want to teach me how to wield a spirit blade?” She had perused a complicated selection of the strict schools of magic accepted by the Circle. Most of it used complex words and so made the reading slowly than she liked, but she understood the theory and practice of them, although she disliked the school of Necromancy – something Dorian prided himself as a genius in. He'd yet to use it in front of her, thankfully. Vivienne's talent lay in the path of the Knight Enchanters, according to the book and her own observations.

“I believe you would do well. There are, of course, alternatives which the Circle could offer, but I thought this might be the most suitable for your...unique style.” She popped a small piece of bread in her mouth. “The offer is there, yours to take advantage of, darling.”

Aslaug sat back and regarded the woman intently. “Why are you offering?”

Vivienne stopped eating and turned to look at her. When Vivienne's eyes bore into her own, Aslaug had the uncomfortable feeling of being weighed and judged, a slab of meat to be carved. “You are the Inquisitor. Before this, you were the Herald and still your voice echoed across Thedas. You now command an army of the faithful, with the attention and coin of the nobility at your disposal. You have ascended, and in you, all of our hopes reside. The possibilities before you are obvious.” Vivienne's voice was powerful despite the lack of volume. “You have set course for the future for all of us.”

“You want that,” Aslaug bluntly stated. “That power.” She had not – she was no glory chaser. She knew what happened to glory chasers, and that the only glory she had ever wanted to truly hold was on the battlefield. A good death.

“I want a say in my future,” she corrected tersely. “I want some measure of control in the life that awaits me, and so I would like us to understand one another.”

“And how do you get that by teaching me?” Aslaug wondered. Josephine hadn't had time to go over the rules of the Court, or the Game, and Aslaug had been content to let it lie as she was doubtful she would truly grasp such a foreign concept on her own. Vivienne had grown up in such an environment, she knew. Doubtless she thought Aslaug stupid enough to mold easily, and she agreed that she would be easier than others in some aspects being that her naivety would work against her.

“This isn't about control, darling. Students learn from their teachers. All I want is for you to learn from me.” Vivienne took a sip of a drink that smelled strongly of cinnamon. Aslaug polished off her first plate, and asked a servant for more broth and something lighter than meat. The young girl brought her a bowl of broth and a small plate of assorted mushrooms that had been tossed in a particular oil and smelled of various seasonings. Once Vivienne had finished her meal, she paused long enough only to say, “Just think about it, Inquisitor.” She left Aslaug to join several Circle mages who had clearly been waiting for the woman.

Aslaug finished her meal in silence, her thoughts heavy and drifting. She went looking for Solas in hopes of picking up where they had left off, or to anticipate further teasing, but he wasn't in the rotunda he had claimed as his own space.

She discovered a painting instead. Panels stretched to grand heights; red and green, blue and white, brown and black, of all different shades. Aslaug looked up at the painting – it was an account of the Inquisition, Havenhold, and the alliance with the mages, and even Corypheus. She hadn't seen it before, but surely whoever had done this hadn't started only in the last couple of days – how long had this been here?

She didn't know how long she stood simply looking up at the creation that took up a section of the rotunda's walls.

Hrathgur had painted and made glyphs for Lurkerhold. He had been the keeper of history and legends, the confidante of the gods and spirits so it had been a part of his duties to record the present for the future. What remained of the ancient written Alamarri language was minimal. There existed some tablets and crypts, scriptures, but they had been lost to the lowlands and were far from the hands of the remaining Avvar. When the Clayne turned their backs on the gods and spirits and nature, they eschewed the language, and most of the keeps and holdings that the Avvar had built were stolen and decorated with likenesses of the Burning Woman. The Clayne had been ashamed of their roots, for some reason, and so they had torn the history of the Alamarri down. When the Avvar had been pushed all the way up to the mountains, they had very little of their written language left – none of the letters, but the hieroglyphs remained. It was easier to communicate with the spirits and gods with feelings and pictures, anyway.

Hrathgur had found written language largely unimportant, but he knew how to speak several languages, and how to write in other languages for the sake of learning. She had always found it odd, but Hrathgur had been a more thoughtful person than she. It was important to others, and so he had taught himself and the Hold's trader how to read and write in common and Orlesian. He knew some Tevene, could tentatively read several dialects of dwarvish and spoke what remained of it fluently, could speak Antivan and Rivani. He had always wanted to learn qunlat for it was as he put it: “The language that commands”, and he'd thought what little he knew of elvish was beautiful. “The language that first knew and understood beauty,” he'd said.

He would have liked this painting. He would have appreciated it more. He would have spoken of how the lines and curves told a story on their own, of the colors that brought it to life. He could have stood in front of it for hours and he and Patience would have contented themselves in its details and what it said when it spoke to them. He would have liked Skyhold. A secret place that their people had once held, but lost like so many other places; a place that had been here before the Neromenians had ever set foot in the southern lands. Hrathgur would have been infatuated. He would have dreamed within this place and seen its past, seen the history and magic that seeped so far into the stones it would survive even if the last of the foundations crumbled. He could have been happy here.

“Wrapped in furs, Gunhild had left the babe behind again to chase after signs of the god of the lost. She never cries or fusses, only stares as if she knows secrets the gods whisper. She is such a quiet thing.” A voice Aslaug recognized spoke to her left and she stiffened and wiped her eyes quickly. “Oh, you used to be so little!” Cole looked up at her from beneath his hat with big eyes. “You grew a lot.”

She cleared her throat awkwardly, and remembering her past interaction with the god as well as her recent conversation with Cassandra, spoke, “What was that you said about my mother?”

“Sorry - you were missing him. Strong and soft, wise and gentle. He used to carry you on his shoulders and sang you to sleep.” Cole's head tilted. “He was very angry with your mother for a long time, but when the darkspawn came and tried to take you – no, not her, get away from her she doesn't belong in the dark – your mother saved you. Died. He wasn't angry with her anymore after that.”

Her brows came together. “Are you...?”

“He loved you very much.” The god, Cole, looked up at the painting.

“Was it enough?” she asked finally, the question that spun in her head, that tightened like a noose. “Were his funeral rites enough?”

“He went home,” he said. “I felt it. The chants and the singing, calling and connecting to the places and things around you. A lot of spirits felt it. They watched you too.”

He went home, she thought. It was enough. Good. It was enough, it had to be for that was all she had done. She swallowed several times, but no words came to her. She had mourned for Hrathgur's death but had yet to celebrate his life – she had not deserved such kindness to be freed from the weight of that grief yet. She would carry it a while longer, close to her heart and hide it away until it no longer hurt. But there were other things to discuss with the kind – with Cole before she confessed her failures and asked for absolution or comfort, or more memories he'd seen.

“Cassandra said...to ask if you wanted to accompany us the next time we leave Skyhold.” She felt so awkward, a foal loosed out to field before she got used to her legs.

“If it will help, yes.” Cole looked back at her. “You don't need to do anything for me. I'm different. I just want to help.”

He'd seen her thoughts then, thoughts of the Hold gods and spirits, offerings and sacrifices and singing and chanting and dancing. Festivals of winter and life and hardship and death. Stone and sky, immutable and mutable, cycle upon cycle upon cycle. “You mentioned that before,” she pointed out.

“Yes,” he said as he picked at his fingers. “But you still feel sorry. Disappointed in yourself. You don't need to be.”

“Because you're different,” she finished slowly.

“Yes.”

At a loss, she said as much, “I don't know what to do.” About so many things.

“I know.” They both turned their gazes up at the artwork. “It's okay.”

 


	36. dæma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dæma - to judge

Josephine flinched when Commander Cullen's palm met the hardwood table. “Hawke is playing us, Inquisitor.”

“Not necessarily,” Josephine hedged awkwardly. Cullen's face didn't soften necessarily, but he half turned and his voice was considerably gentler. Josephine tended to soften his rougher edges.

“Lady Montilyet, Hawke was always stirring the pot somehow. She wasn't protecting the Warden by refusing to give the Inquisitor his location. She was throwing her weight around; she did so when Orsino and Meredith were at each other's throats in public. She never took a side and provoked them for her own amusement.” Cullen dragged his hand down his face.

Aslaug glanced at Varric, who pointedly stayed silent. “She has been keeping the Warden's identity and movement a secret while in hiding herself, is it not possible she is wary of our intentions?”

Cullen frowned. “Certainly possible, but Hawke -”

“Hawke has learned that taking sides immediately can have repercussions. I remember meeting her under dire circumstances in Kirkwall and even then she had been campaigning for some sort of compromise.” Leliana pressed her hip against the table. “Hawke has always been sympathetic to the plight of mages, naturally stemming from her own family life. It seems she was also somewhat sympathetic to the trials the templars undergo.”

“As true as that is, Leliana, Hawke wasn't simply looking for a middle ground. And I would argue that 'campaigning' is a strong term for watching two people light a house on fire and throwing out the odd comment about it now and again,” Cullen's tone turned darker. Josephine shook her head slowly.

“Please don't, Commander -” she began.

“She's an anarchist at heart. She didn't just believe in toppling the Order or the Circle, but the Chantry and indeed _any_ form of government. You were not in Kirkwall, Sister. She thrives in, in, in _chaos_.”

“She's not really an anarchist, Curly. She just...has unaddressed issues with figures of authority. I blame Loghain, personally.” Varric seemed to wince and smile at the same time. His hands wrung together.

“She told you where the Warden is?” Aslaug asked.

Varric strolled over to the map and pointed at somewhere a little south of the Storm Coast. Aslaug pursed her lips and internally sounded out the word, but tripped over the letters 'stw' next to each other. “Crestwood,” Varric said. “He's not there yet, but he plans on getting there and he'll send a letter when he arrives. He has to...lose his tail, in the meantime.”

Leliana cocked her head. “That is not a village with a happy tale.”

“How so?” Aslaug found herself looking at Leliana's profile.

“The Blight ran through it,” Cullen spoke then. “It was...not good. The village did not come away unscathed.”

“I heard that many of the refugees and neighbors Crestwood took in had contracted the disease, and quarantine can only do so much with the Blight.” Leliana stroked the area on the map lightly.

Aslaug's brows raised. The tainted were all but doomed if there were none who knew of the few ways to keep it at bay. “Did they spread it then?”

Leliana nodded. “There were several isolated incidences, similar to the accounts I've heard from Amaranthine. But the refugees died; the darkspawn had broken the controls of the dam and had attempted to the drown the village entirely.”

“Thank the Maker they failed,” Cullen muttered. His expression was still rather thunderous.

“Why would he go to Crestwood?” Aslaug wondered.

“There are hiding places there; old tunnels made by smugglers centuries ago connect many of the caves. It would be easier for someone on the run to meet others. Not to mention the troubles Crestwood faces now. My agents have reported that the dead move freely and there is an unconfirmed rumor that there is a rift underwater. Bandits have all but put their trade routes to a halt and their food stores are running low.”

Aslaug sucked on her teeth. “Must we wait for Hawke's Warden to come forth? If things are so dire -”

“If we move now, we attract the attention of the other Wardens, and it could force him to go to ground again. If the Wardens are truly in league with Corypheus, then they will be watching our movements very carefully. We cannot move until we are given the signal.” Josephine twirled her pen and though her words were logical and her tone confident, her expression was worried and drawn. “Leliana...your agents, is there anything they can do?”

“I've received word that one of my agents has led an assault against the roaming bandits. Some of the Inquisition traders had attempted to use the roads as they had been well maintained throughout Ferelden's history, but there were reports of caravans being led astray or disappearing. Upon further investigation, the bandits have taken a keep from the village. He informed me that he is confident they could retake it, but it would attract attention as the citizens of Crestwood refuse to leave their village on a good day. It would look odd for detached outsiders to storm the keep and claim it.”

Aslaug pinched the bridge of her nose. “Did Hawke say anything else, Varric?”

He had been hesitant since the previous day when she had turned on him and Cassandra, but it hadn't prevented him from being forthcoming. “Just that the Warden will have more information. He's mentioned someone called the Architect to her, but never went into much detail.”

Leliana made a considering noise behind them. “I've heard only whispers of the Architect. Amaranthine is...protective of any rumors about the Warden-Commander. It's against the law to even insinuate the Warden-Commander had any criminal ties, or participated in illegal activities during the Blight. An out of town writer found out the hard way. He was nearly sent to the guillotine.”

“You're kidding.” Varric's arms dropped. “I thought that was nug-shit. I laughed when Blondie told me; I thought that only happened in Orzammar.”

The Spymaster shook her head. “No. Luckily the Wardens interceded on his behalf and he was released. He never managed to find work in Amaranthine afterward, and eventually he left. As I said, the people idolize him despite his controversial choices after the Blight.”

“Fascinating. I heard the rumors...I wonder if it's true that the slur for elves is also outlawed.” Josephine had her attention fully focused on Leliana.

“No, but it is illegal to deny anyone housing, work, or food based on racial identity. I believe there's a fine and a long term stay in Amaranthine's dungeons overseen by the Wardens there. More city elves flocked to Amaranthine as a result of the Warden-Commander's presence, and I've heard of casteless dwarves seeking refuge there as well.”

“The Architect?” Cullen forcefully ushered them back to the most important piece of information. “I've never heard of him.”

Varric shrugged. “Hawke doesn't know much, but from her guesswork, Corypheus might not be the only special and unique darkspawn. Joy of joys.”

Aslaug shut her eyes tightly at the thought of more darkspawn magisters like Corypheus roaming freely, unchecked. “Is there any other news?” She felt exhausted and it wasn't yet nightfall. She wanted to go out in the wilderness, go hunting, or sing or chant. Something Avvar in its most whole nature, but it would have to wait.

“The fighting in the Exalted Plains has worsened. Both sides have taken enormous losses, and the fighting threatens the Dalish clans nearby. Homes have been burned, innocent people have been killed in the struggle for the crown. There are also...disturbing implications.” Josephine bit her lower lip.

“Some of our soldiers have been fighting for a proper foothold in the Exalted Plains. They claim demons and the dead move freely, and a few believe blood magic is being used.” Cullen's arms crossed over his chest, mouth pinched and turned down.

Blood magic hardly bothered Aslaug, but often as it was with lowlanders who used blood magic, it was usually meant to bind spirits to a body or in the world against their will. An action punishable by death or through an ordeal typically commanded by the spirits and gods amongst her people. “What fighting is in the Exalted Plains?”

“Currently, Grand Duke Gaspard and Empress Celene have been at odds since she took the throne.”

“By rights, the throne should have gone to Gaspard, but Celene plays the Game better than he does and outmaneuvered him. Many of the nobles threw their support behind her despite the fact that she shouldn't have gotten the throne before him,” Cullen pointed out. “The military, by large however, stands behind him.”

“Yes, but Gaspard is a career military man; a soldier by nature. Celene is a diplomat and politician. She has provided a much needed balm between the Orlesians and the Fereldans.” Josephine rebutted.

“Celene is not without fault, Josie. She has a poor reputation among the city elves and the Dalish. She consolidated her power by reinforcing beliefs that the elves should not have council power. They put forth the idea after King Alistair appointed elven representatives and advisors to the Court formally after the Blight ended. The Orlesian Court refused to even entertain the idea, Celene along with them.” Leliana tapped her fingers against her arm.

“They rioted, Leliana.” Josephine argued. “They started fires, began to arouse the public against the crown -”

“As do many of the oppressed when the yoke becomes too heavy,” Leliana interrupted lightly. “Celene had their alienage burned. Many of the elves were executed or jailed. She is not so diplomatic as she enjoys appearing.”

“And the fighting in the Plains...?” Aslaug led.

“They fight for supremacy over Orlesian lands and the crown.”

“What did each do before that? Which do the people follow?” she asked.

Josephine blinked once. “Oh – oh, I see. The line of succession is through blood, Inquisitor. It is mostly the same throughout Thedas, but particularly with Ferelden and Orlais. They don't necessarily need to have accomplished anything; it is a right they've earned through blood.”

Aslaug was unable to stop her face from contorting sourly. “They earn it just for being pushed out?”

Josephine coughed delicately and Cullen found the rafters incredibly fascinating. Leliana and Varric shared wry smiles. “I would not quite put it in those words,” the Ambassador deflected.

She remained unimpressed. There were times when the children of thanes became thanes themselves, but it was through no belief that greatness was carried in blood alone. “So they're fighting for domination now.”

“Yes,” Josephine confirmed. “Orlais is in a state of chaos and that could prove disastrous for Ferelden, but calming the Exalted Plains may help alleviate tensions in the Empire. If the Inquisition could step in, we might prove to have some allies among the nobles before we even arrive at Halamshiral.”

“Sounds as though we have little choice. Until Hawke's Warden sends word, we won't see Crestwood as of yet.” Aslaug touched a carved figurine on the map.

“There are other issues we must discuss...if you would excuse us, Master Tethras.” Josephine inclined her head respectfully at the man.

“I'm going, I'm going. Can't blame a dwarf for keeping an ear out.” He backed out of the room and the door shut behind him heavily.

“Now that you are the Inquisitor, you will be the one who judges the accused.” Josephine peeled back several pages on her wooden board and made a pleased noise when she found what she'd been looking for. “Gereon Alexius, the magister who had planned to assassinate you, awaits judgment. An Avvar chieftain also awaits judgment -” at Aslaug's surprised look, Josephine hurried to explain, “He was found during your absence to have been throwing...goats at Skyhold. He claims it was for the death of his kin in the Fallow Mire.”

Aslaug abruptly rolled her eyes with a groan. “I knew that whelp would have an unpleasant surprise yet to come. Has the chieftain attacked any of our people? Disrupted trade or killed mounts, livestock?”

“Ah, no.”

“Tradition. A mostly hollow action that many tribes have since stopped practicing since it's a drain on resources better spent on offerings or storage. He means only to splatter a Holding with goat's blood. An answering insult, but harmless.” Aslaug waved her hand. “Now with Alexius -”

The advisors had continued to stare at her silently. “Is that normal?” Cullen questioned.

She straightened. “It is.” She squinted. “I don't complain about the cheese races your people fund.” Blackwall had mentioned them before. She had heard of stupid things, but none quite so stupid as that.

“That's Orlesians.” Cullen paused. “Ferelden has mabari jousting to settle some local land disputes.”

“A greased wheel of cheese is hard to navigate; it's meant to be symbolic about the pitfalls and the unknowns of court life and the law,” Josephine defended.

Aslaug blinked at them slowly. “And goat's blood is stupid?”

Leliana coughed politely. “They must still be formally judged, Inquisitor. You must weigh the consequences of their actions in the context given. Then their punishment will be set by you of which we will provide you with some possible punishments at your disposal although it is not necessary that you choose only those options. But the advisors, us, and those within the hall must witness their account, yours, any presented evidence, and your final judgment. If you like, we can do so in a couple hours.”

Thanes sat in judgment, but they consulted the augur and the spirits and gods of the Hold, and often held tests before judgment was rendered. “Alright,” she stated with purpose. “Have them ready.”

“Wait, really?” Josephine sounded surprised.

“Yes. I'll be ready in an hour's time. Come get me when you've prepared them. I'll be in the tavern. Now, tell what they are accused of and what options you all have offered.”

 

…

 

“I need your help,” she announced and waited expectantly. She placed a soft plum next to his hand.

Cole cocked his head and after a moment, put the plum in a pouch at his hip. “Alright.”

“Alexius.”

He frowned. “He didn't want to hurt anyone. He just couldn't see. _Take my whole life for my son. Maker hear me, my wife is gone don't take my son. Not him. I'll do anything_.”

“But does that excuse what he did? Felix is a good man, and none of us would wish him harm but...he's one person. Not to mention the fact that he waited until the mages were at their most vulnerable and afraid. He made everything so much worse.”

“He can be better. He wants to be, but he doesn't think he deserves it. His pain is all twisted in on itself. He won't let me help. It hurts more when people try to help.”

“He cannot be unpunished. He would have let the world burn. He served Corypheus. But I do not believe his actions should lead the way to execution. Yet...what else is there? I saw the world he paved the way for.” A parent did many things for their child, but none could be allowed to go so far at such a cost without there being a price.

“He is...grateful that Felix is alive. Hates that he's grateful to the person he tried to kill, to you, but Felix is alive and well. He would want to help. He doesn't think he'll be able to make anything better, but he wants to try,” Cole insisted.

Aslaug gave him a measured look. “Are you asking for clemency on his behalf?”

“Yes. Let him help.”

She exhaled through her nose slowly. “Fine. And what of Fiona? She hardly waited but a moment, and abused King Alistair's trust – who I'm led to believe supports mage rights, and since then I imagine this blunder will be shoved in his face. Need I add she had Tevinters swarm on Fereldan soil?” Why she was not being held accountable to the mages who had previously been under her command was beyond Aslaug. If a thane failed their people, they were on a trial and they would be judged like any other. “She isn't on trial, but many of her people didn't want to go to Tevinter's arms. She didn't listen to them, and invited a very, very old enemy to Ferelden's doorstep.” She understood the woman's desperation better now, but it couldn't quite excuse everything. It didn't help that Aslaug knew her own judgment was clouded on such a matter. There was an old anger passed down from her Avvar lineage that rankled and fumed at the thought of an invading force of Tevinter yet again on Alamarri soil – regardless of the fact that it was Clayne territory.

“She was just trying to do what she could. She was afraid. _It's just us now, clustered together like lambs for spring slaughter in a barn with nowhere to go. No one will believe us, we cannot get out. We will die here, we will die._ ”

Aslaug rubbed her eyebrow. “She – I leave what will become of her up to her people. That she didn't listen a a majority of them must sting. I suppose it is not my place to judge her.”

“They won't speak to her, silence at the table, eyes on her roaming and never staying. No one wants her in lessons, they whisper in the corridors. She is surrounded but alone.” Cole dug a fingernail into the wooden railing.

Oh. Aslaug glanced down at Maryden, stringing her instrument for another song. Fiona had already been punished. That had been quick and she hadn't even noticed or spared much thought to it. It would be cruel if it was permanent, but Fiona had never betrayed her confidence. Still. No one wanted to be alone in the world, exiled from their people. Reviled.

Perhaps Leliana or Josephine could find a place for her.

“She likes research and teaching,” Cole bubbled out helpfully. He was hopeful, optimistic.

“We'll find something,” she assured him. That settled it. Or, more specifically, it was likely Leliana would find work for her.

“What will you do with Chieftain Movran?” Cole asked.

Movran. So that was his name. Aslaug hummed. “He did as is our, rather outdated, custom because I spilled the blood of his son. I took his boy's followers too.” She thought for a moment. “It would've taken a lot of goat's blood to wash Skyhold proper.” She'd seen the trials of the gods all her life. One such trial had been to carry a young ram – the feistier, larger ones that lived in the mountains – from the birthing pool and its caves to the highest point, near the area sky burials were held. She'd also seen drunken ram wrestling to settle disagreements and to reinforce humbleness when the matters were dismissed as childish and foolish.

She had never seen one simply fling goats at a Hold in retribution. Why did no one stop him? Surely they must've seen an Avvar man leading goats along, and he had flung quite a few. Did the Inquisition think at first that that had been her directive, some weird custom for a Hold?

The man had flung eight goats at Skyhold before anyone stopped him. He'd supposedly swung the ninth like a club at the soldiers who had attempted to subdue him.

How had he flung the goats so far? No one had mentioned.

She imagined a giant slingshot, constructed of the rubbery leather hide of gurgut and waxed until it shone and sprung back enthusiastically when snapped. Would Chieftain Movran go to such lengths to spit at her?

“Yes.”

She turned. Cole blinked widely up at her. “Yes,” he repeated.

She rolled her eyes. Of course. She loved her people dearly, but they were all hardheaded. “If he's willing to go so far, then I pray to the gods above and around then that he has more sons and daughters with better sense than his marsh idiot,” she mumbled. Cole stared back with a slight downturn to his mouth. She shifted uncomfortably at his disapproval. “Pardon.”

“What will you do?” he asked instead.

“I would consider this done. I killed his kin for challenging me and threatening mine with no grounds, he spilled goat's blood on my Hold, and hasn't done anything to further animosity. I would let him go, it is done.” She considered it. “I do not know if everyone would agree with me.”

“No,” Cole supplied, less helpfully.

She rubbed her forehead with a long exhale. “It was not harmful and yet my culture here is obscure and isn't shared by the majority within Skyhold. I do not think everyone would understand even were I to explain it.” She clasped her hands. She thought of Cullen's soldiers and Leliana's spies - “I could not bind them to the Inquisition without inviting trouble amongst the rest of their Hold. Capturing the leftovers from a brat gone wild with a god's blessing is one thing, but to capture a chieftain...” She didn't want to deal with the potential backlash of angering an entire Hold, even if he acted beyond their boundaries – the Avvar were quick to anger, and most times quick to forgive such anger, but if her time in the lowlands had taught her anything it was that perhaps her people were not to quick to forgive and forget as she thought. An uneasy truth unveiled to her, about her own self.

Cole had begun picking at the splinters in the wooden post next to him, tilting his head this way and that. Aslaug waited for him to speak, but he didn't. Had her quandary lost his interest?

“Do you have a suggestion?” she finally prompted after a long minute of awkward silence on her part, as she just watched Cole explore the wood grains.

“His son was down there because others were there. They were looking, tracking, hunting for people to take away. They had chains and shackles and bound spirits to follow them,” he said.

She paused. She hadn't remembered seeing any such enemies that would cause a Hold to send off a war party after them – and chains and bound spirits... “Tevinters?” she guessed aloud.

Cole looked at her and she felt her neck flush in some embarrassment at the kind, unsaid admonishment. Dorian was a Holdmate now, and a good man, and so was Felix.

“Slavers, then,” she corrected. “I don't remember seeing any.” If they had been in the Fallow Mire, she would have seen evidence of it. Evidence of skirmishes and sacrifices and rites to the gods. Sky Watcher had not said they had been there to hunt Tevinter slavers. While the Mire had been awful, full of death and tragedy, there had not in truth been much rage. There were no bodies of Tevinter men strung up in the sparse trees offered, or altars made for Hakkon – the one who would have called for such sacrifices.

“He was supposed to, but he didn't.”

Aslaug pinched the bridge of her nose and fought not to spit in the brat's name before the kind god – of course the idiot hadn't done what he had been commanded to, likely by a thane and augur and spirits of the Hold. He'd wanted glory and sought to gain that by removing her head.

If it still hadn't been done, perhaps the father would do so. It befell to him now that his son had failed so epically and he had inserted himself into the dead's affairs.

“Yes,” Cole agreed.

He'd likely picked up on her thoughts – Loyalty had much done the same even after the years they had been separated but it was still odd that a god in flesh was capable of the same. She wondered why he gave himself form, rather than finding a like minded mortal to bond with, or remaining as the spirits of the Holds often did, unbound but not entirely there or without the Fade.

She rested her chin on a knee and watched the Chargers begin a drinking contest with the barkeep watching them blandly, cleaning a dirty mug with a dirty rag.

Cole perked up suddenly, head cocking like a dog that had heard something in the distance and was attempting to identify it. Aslaug paid him little mind, assuming he was listening to some hurt another person felt, until cold fingers touched her arm. “Solas is hurting,” he said. His large, clear blue eyes were on her, yet weren't focused on her in that moment. “He's going to look for you.”

Aslaug had already scrambled to her feet, with a mumbled apology to Cole for leaving abruptly, and was off in the direction of the place Solas had claimed for himself.

He met her halfway and stopped. He held himself tall, regal in the pale light of the sun. He nodded to her and she continued to approach him, her feet were leaden and her heartbeat a dull drum that made her blood sound like rushing water in her ears. “I must speak to you,” he said briskly without any preamble. The tone of his voice gave her pause before she followed him back to the rotunda. She could smell paint on his fingers, and a kind of plaster she remembered dwarves of Orzammar using.

He sounded like the Other One. The Other Solas from that place that wasn't. Worry and desperation and a fierce anger set to smolder.

There was a cup of tea beside his work on the little table, cleared out from the bowels of Skyhold. It steamed still and smell of dark leaves and herbs. She liked tea, but Solas didn't. He claimed it was too bitter. She tapped at the edge of the cup thoughtfully and watched him pace across the room, hands at his sides. He moved with long strides and seemed to pointedly keep his hands loose and unclenched. She saw the tendons in his neck stand out.

He still had yet to speak.

“Solas,” she thought of the diplomatic tone Josephine would use during their council meetings when the other headstrong people refused to listen with their ears and minds, “what is it?” He didn't look hurt and she couldn't think of anything she had done to gain his ire.

“Last night, I heard my friend. It called out for help – it was captured, _enslaved_. It is in pain. It needs help, please help me with this.” He shook his head and motioned with his hands. He was furious. He was concerned.

“Your friend?” she wondered.

He met her gaze. “Yes, a spirit. It. A spirit of Wisdom. I do not know...I do not know what it's been made to do but it sounded...terrified, in pain. Please, you must help me.”

She inhaled swiftly. An unwillingly bound god. There were few that wished to be bound, but what her people considered “bound” differed from what lowlanders considered “bound”. An uncomfortable conversation with Dorian early on had been enlightening. “Your friend, where is it? Does it know? Can it communicate?”

“I cannot reach it at this point in time, but I got a sense of where it was. It showed me, briefly. Inquisitor, please.” He was vulnerable and open before her as the Other One had been, raw and red as a heart to be weighed for sacrifice.

“Where?” she asked.

“The Exalted Plains – but we must leave as soon as possible,” he hurried on to say. He stayed at a distance and it felt as though they were at opposite sides of a gulf with a river between them.

She nodded slowly. “We will leave as soon as we can. Call who will come.”

Solas's head dropped slightly. “Thank you,” he sounded a little breathless and a genuine smile quirked his lips briefly.

She lifted a hand to lay upon his arm and she felt the muscle beneath his sleeve jump and flinch. She looked up at his face and it was no longer the relieved smile as it had been. There was not even a frown. It was as though he were carved from stone, shaped to be expressionless, and a finger of chill tugged at her heart, sank to her belly.

She removed her hand and stepped back, cleared her throat. “If you could take care of preparations...Leliana and the others said I must sit in judgment today, as Inquisitor.”

His eyes tracked her hand before he looked up. “Inquisitor,” he returned and walked from the room to begin preparations.

Aslaug stood in the middle of the rotunda, surrounded by his paints and his cooling tea and his work, unsure. She felt as though she had been walking down steps and her foot had caught a patch of slick moss.

“Erm, Inquisitor?” a voice behind her asked and she turned. A scout, fresh-faced and young, stood at the entryway. “The court is ready.”

She nodded and pushed away the feeling of slipping and tumbling. “I will be only a moment. Who is first?”

“Ah the magister, Inquisitor.” He waited there awkwardly until she waved him away.

She took a moment to prepare herself the only way she knew how. She used what little face paint she had on her to paint the eye of the Inquisition on her forehead, strikes of gold on her chin and a single stripe down her nose. Dots of white beneath her eyes that streaked to her hairline.

Her braids were already done, and she would have preferred going out with her glaive in one hand as thanes had to be their own final justice, but she would make do without.

She strode to the dais where the skull and mouth of the dragoness she had killed with her Holdmates had been fashioned into a throne. Most of its fangs had been left in tact, the flesh had been expertly preserved and polished.

She sat and faced the gathered audience. Mostly it was soldiers and scouts, with some mages – she saw Fiona in back, templars, and the few nobles that had been brave enough to follow them to Skyhold.

Josephine cleared her throat beside her, tablet before her. “Inquisitor,” she murmured softly. She nodded at the woman. She saw Leliana near the croft's door where the smith and the new runemaker worked. Cullen stood at Aslaug's immediate left, hands folded behind him. He nodded at Aslaug and looked to Josephine expectantly.

“Magister Gereon Alexius of Tevinter stands before you – accused of an assassination plot against you, the unlawful enslavement of mages on Fereldan soil, the undue and unlawful evacuation of the village of Redcliffe, and conspiring against the Fereldan crown,” Josephine's crisp tones were what welcomed the Tevinter mage, chained and shackled without his fine clothes, clad only in a thin tunic.

He looked up at her, a frown on his lined face. Beyond the circle of guards, she saw Dorian and Felix standing in the audience side by side. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “And you, magister? What have you to say?” she barked in a voice that shattered the almost peaceful quiet.

His shoulders slumped. “Nothing I say will change what happened. End this farce of a trial, I have nothing to add.”

Cullen shifted in agitation beside her and Josephine pursed her lips at the Commander first, then at Alexius.

“Nothing?” Aslaug asked. “I watched the world you heralded in turn to ash and ruin. Ferelden was broken, bare boned, and my Holdmates died one after another to try to stop the one you called the Elder One from rising to the height he still wishes to gain. You had claimed to raise up a god that would recall Tevinter glory.” She wished to stand, to pace before him, and make him confess his sins, to hear why he was sorry, if he was sorry. “You ushered a god of death, and so that was all that he brought to that future you sent me to. Your boy, Felix, still died.”

Alexius hissed and took a shaky step forward in his outrage. “I was wrong – what happened should not have happened but I had little other choice! My son. My Felix. All that I...he was – he _is_ all that I have in this world. Even...even if it was a lie, I needed it to be true. Had to believe it to be true. Do you not think of my guilt now, as I see him healthy and cured of his ailment, walking the halls here, visiting me in the dungeons?! I was wrong – I was wrong but no matter how I apologize, how truly sorry I am, what's done is done. Those that have died will stay dead. The bridges that I lit have already burned. Do as you will.”

Aslaug tapped her fingers against her thigh. “I spoke to an advisor before this meeting. He asked for mercy on your behalf. He believes you are capable of good. Whether or not this is redemption for you, I lay at your feet. I do know that you worked on dangerous magic once thought impossible. Corypheus – your Elder One – is a creature we also once thought of as impossible. Should you accept it, you will work under guard with a small team so we might stand a chance against what we must now combat.”

Alexius tried to turn to look at the crowd, likely attempting to search for his son, but Aslaug spoke again: “This one who has advised me to take such a risk with you is kinder than I would have been. But I trust his judgment and my respect for your son has given me leave to reconsider your life. I will say this, though. Should you attempt to contact anyone affiliated with Corypheus or his ilk, should you stand in the way of what the Inquisition is trying to accomplish, I will kill you. Not my soldiers, not the scouts.” She looked him in the eye and he turned grimly to her. “Avvar thanes do not use executioners.”

“Point made.” Josephine fluttered at her side. “If that is all...?” She looked to Aslaug for confirmation and the other woman gave a short nod. “Very well. Please take researcher Alexis away and bring Chieftain Movran the Under.”

Movran the Under barely seemed to notice the shackles and chains that bound him. He was more than a head and shoulders taller than the soldiers that ushered him forth. The ram's horns that curled out from his hood flap made his height seem that much more intimidating. Aslaug made a face – a chieftain from Ramhornhold. Movran eyed her doubtfully before snorting like a horse.

“Chieftain Movran, you have been brought before the Inquisitor for crimes of -” Josephine began.

Movran broke the grips of the soldiers beside him and he approached the throne with a surprisingly speed for his size. Cullen immediately moved to stand beside the Ambassador after she smothered a gasp and Aslaug tensed.

“You and I know this is merely fool puppetry... _Inquisitor_ ,” Movran drawled. His tone was mocking, wry. She wondered how it looked to this proud man to see a girl-child sitting on a throne she hadn't carved on her own, hadn't imbued with the Avvar protections common, to see an Avvar turned lowlander leader seat herself as a thane without an augur or gods or spirits. “You spilled the blood of my kin – I do not deny the whelp deserved it. He was there to hunt Tevinters, not interfere with _your kind_.”

Aslaug felt her chest constrict.

“There are no ill feelings, and no harm was done. But you know that, do you not? If you still know your roots at all, anyway.” Movran gave a smile and licked his teeth. “Do what you will.”

An awkward silence stretched until Josephine coughed gently. Aslaug sat up. “Movran the Under,” she purposefully dropped his rank and he bared his teeth at her to show his amusement, “I do understand that you only responded as is demanded by our culture under such circumstances. For those of my people who are not aware of the Avvar custom; it is no more than a dowager spitting at another on the street.” Movran began to laugh and Aslaug raised her voice to be heard over his guttural baritone. “Were this a Hold that held only Avvar, Movran I would not have brought you before me in chains, and we would not be speaking of this. But my people are many, and different, and this is not my Hold alone.”

Movran stopped laughing and regarded her inquisitively.

This was a defining moment, Aslaug realized and she trailed off briefly. She was Avvar, indisputably, she could never shake her heritage and she would never wish to. Her roots went mountain-deep and stretched to the stars; she was between stone and sky, forever. But she was not for the Avvar alone anymore, and the people witnessing this were hers now, and they had to know that. Josephine gave her a small encouraging smile and darted a glance at the audience before back to her.

“But your tribe ran astray beyond the scope of your own holdings. It cannot happen again; you and yours will be cast from my lands to the reaches of Tevinter to finish what your son failed to accomplish. Take all your supplies and leave – may you meet battle-glory, death, or a new home.” The hall was so silent she could hear the wind whistling in the corridors.

Movran threw his head back and laughed. “You're casting me from your lands and demand I meet Tevinters in combat? You are not my thane, cub – you have no power to exile me from the mountains. But, I will accept your offer to send me and mine to battle Tevinters,” Movran added slyly. Tension slowly drained from Aslaug's form – chieftains and people often bartered and bargained with a thane. She'd grown up watching such negotiations at Hrathgur's knee.

“Take all your weapons, and my people will supply yours with bread and meat for the journey,” she shot back.

Movran rocked on his heels as if in thought. “It is done, Inquisitor, we will take our punishment to another land.”

With a glance at Josephine that wasn't at all subtle who returned her look with a mild, pleased expression, Aslaug lifted her chin. “So it is done, Chieftain.”

 

…

 

Where once a pleased expression sat proudly on Josephine's face, it slowly melted after Aslaug finished speaking. “The – the Exalted Plains? So soon?” she nearly spluttered. Cullen looked as if listening to Aslaug speak physically pained him. “But I – I know it was strongly advised to investigate the Exalted Plains at large; this just seems so soon.”

“We also have no established major camps at our disposal. It is dangerous, particularly in light of the reports we've received.” Cullen rubbed the bridge of his nose between his eyes.

“This friend of Solas's,” Leliana interrupted, “who are they? Might they be of help to the Inquisition? Solas alone is a source of knowledge and talent in magic as well as the Veil and the Fade.”

Josephine paused in her quiet fretting. “That...that is an excellent point. The Inquisition could always use more expertise and assistance. This is not exactly an easy task we've all agreed to undertake.”

Aslaug hesitated. All three advisors stared. Cullen narrowed his eyes immediately. “Inquisitor?” He probably didn't mean for it to sound so suspicious.

“A spirit friend of his called out for help. I promised I would assist them.” She turned her attention to the map stretched on the table.

“That is – Inquisitor, it is a spirit and to travel safely to the Fade you'd need access to lyrium, and templars -”

“Not necessarily, it can be done without either, though I will point out we do have lyrium in abundance and mages -”

“Were you referring to blood magic, Sister?!”

“Please calm down Cullen -”

“The spirit is not in the Fade, as far as Solas was able to discern. The spirit was unwillingly bound beyond it and needs help to break free,” Aslaug interjected. Cullen's ears flushed pink. Josephine had a pleasant face but the lines around her mouth were tight and her hand rested on Cullen's forearm. “It is not a demon,” she added quickly. What exactly constituted a corrupt god, a demon, or not depended where you came from, she found.

Cullen's mouth thinned. “Indeed most say they aren't.”

“I trust Solas's judgment. He has not since led us astray or lied, has he?” she asked.

“I trust him,” Leliana volunteered. “He's been transparent with us and was only ever vague when he was uncertain of his status as an apostate amongst a Chantry organization.”

Josephine hummed thoughtfully. “I advise against this excursion because we do not have the presence in Exalted Plains to make this a safe venture, however,” she emphasized to stop Leliana and Aslaug from disrupting, “I do not know when we would have the opportunity to make the Plains safer for the Inquisitor. We need noble allies on our side before the Annual Ball in Halamshiral and time is not on our side. As much as I still believe this is not the most opportune time, I cannot say in good faith when indeed there _will_ be an opportune time.”

Cullen seemed to deflate. “Bloody -”

“Commander,” Josephine scolded gently.

He sighed loudly. “I will send word to the forward scouts and soldiers to look for you on the Plains and we will try to claim at least one campsite. I warn you – the fighting was bad when it was just the Orlesians, but now there's demons and the undead. Please be on your guard and take a full company.”

Aslaug took it to heart. For all that she didn't always agree with Cullen, he was a strategist and brilliant at combat. He would not exaggerate something of this nature. “Please send word, we leave at your signal.”

Cullen held up a hand. “A moment, please.”

She lifted her brows. “Commander?”

“Take...” he sighed loudly as if put upon. “Be sure to take either of the Tevinter mages with you – Dorian or Felix. If this is Solas's friend he will probably hesitate if it is unruly. Dorian has experience with spirits as does Felix, in admittedly a way that I find highly discomforting, but you seem to trust him and...it.”

“Unruly?”

Cullen didn't look away from her intense stare. “If the spirit is a demon, it must be put down. I can't trust Solas's word alone that he wouldn't hesitate to kill it if it is necessary. This precaution is as much for your safety as it is for everyone else.”

“Please,” Josephine added. Leliana only observed them from the dark shadow under her hood.

Aslaug's lips tightened but she nodded.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avvar and justice - 
> 
> Avvar trials are often held before the people after a thane has consulted the Hold's augur and spirits. If a matter is brought forward to the thane and is found by all parties to be beneath their presence, the trial devolves into public humiliation before the witnesses (making an ass of thee, not me). Trials are affected by a multitude of things: what they've been accused of, the context of the circumstance, whether they have a spirit that has given its blessing to them, even the time of year, can all have an impact on their punishment or indeed how the trial proceeds. Most typically there is a test of the gods given when there is a disagreement between Avvar people - apparently encouraged by the spirits and the gods of the Hold, and interpreted by the augur and mages, who then bring it before the elders and leaders of the Hold who may add or change it in some way. 
> 
> Avvar justice, their interpretation of it and how it is meted out and what for, is very vague and difficult to comprehend. For example: there are no dungeons, there is no such thing as imprisonment - that is for Avvar enemies they do not respect enough to kill outright. Execution and other forms of suffering, however, are quite common as punishments.


	37. fresla einn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten a few asks and requests about the soundtrack for this fic and the chapters, so links will be on my tumblr whenever a new chapter is out for easy access.
> 
> And the Exalted Plains! Fucking finally, amirite? It's a long one, kiddos. They're not leaving until the Plains are cleared OUT, and more meta and lore ahead.

It felt like so long ago since she'd seen the Hinterlands aflame, burning with tall spirals of black smoke into a clear sky that ignored the fighting below with an almost callous serenity. She had seen it again at Havenhold when Corypheus came with an army of monsters at his beck and call; the foulest corruption given complete form and movement. She'd felt the same heat from such flames twice since she'd been in the lowlands. She'd felt the fury that fueled it, the desperate need to destroy.

She had never thought fire could be a representation of anguish, victory, comfort, and loss all at once. But perhaps those who followed Andraste understood it better than she; to walk in flame and ever burning light. She couldn't imagine, however, that the elves felt the same way.

Statues of Andraste held dishes of fire and they lined the path with expressions of righteousness, although she was sure Andraste had never stepped foot onto these lands and shuddered at the feeling of the earth beneath her. The lands were bloodied and bruised; it felt as though they still raged against the idea of humanity treading the dirt that belonged to the elves once. An eternity's worth of rage and tears and betrayal.

No wonder the Inquisition soldiers had run across demons and the undead and the restless things she had no doubt still roamed this place. No, Aslaug did not belong here and this place did not want her there. Despite the heat that was spoken of fondly amongst her Holdmates and the glittering stretch of water in the distance, and the rolling fertile hills, she had never come to a place that felt so hostile to her being. This was not the cool, rough embrace of the Frostback Mountain. This place knew of broken promises and war and suffering.

She cringed the further they carried on but kept her silence as she guided Bjarni behind Solas's hart. He had remained mostly silent on the journey to the Exalted Plains and often only answered in clipped tones. He slept whenever possible but woke frustrated and reticent. He'd been searching for his friend and had clearly had no luck. That boded ill.

Aslaug's own dreams, while she hadn't had the talent to shape them herself like Hrathgur and Solas, had drifted often to the usual trails of endless snowscape of the mountains. Of course, all the Avvar were called to the mountains during their dreams whenever they were close enough. Even beyond the waking world, the mountain-father tended to his strange topside children.

The dreams now were clearer than she remembered them being for years since she'd carried Loyalty. The mark, she assumed. She'd been meaning to ask Solas, but there never seemed to be a good time. The dreams she would have here would no doubt prove to be interesting and unpleasant.

Iron Bull and Varric brought up the rear behind Felix. Felix rode alongside her with a disturbingly pale pallor to his face. Aslaug leaned in to whisper: “Are you well?” She didn't doubt Patience's ability to drive the sickness entirely from his body and to assist in his complete recovery, but each new mystery unveiled about the Blight and its capabilities worried her in the quiet moments of the passing days.

“I-” he swallowed and blinked rapidly, “I can feel this place. I -” He shook his head.

She pursed her lips. All mages could feel the soul of a place, to an extent, although it truly depended how close they were to nature and whether they cared to pay attention or not. Dwarves, in a different but somewhat similar fashion, could feel the turn of the ages through stone. She understood why he looked disturbed – she could feel the land's opposition to her intrusion just as well – but he sounded confused. It was odd. “This place is very angry,” she agreed simply.

She watched his eyes glisten. A tear formed at the corner of one and rolled down silently. “It's a creature in a cage, blinded and muted. It feels,” he gasped quietly and clutched at his breast. Aslaug felt a growing rise of alarm. “I just feel pain and anger. I can't feel joy or calm here. I feel...I feel as though I must scream.”

“Is – what is Patience saying?” She should've realized it immediately. She should have taken Dorian, but Solas hadn't wanted him along for it – likely the bone of contention was Dorian's view of spirits and the way he used them. She felt much the same way Solas did about the topic, but had she failed to see another issue in taking Felix? Yes. Had she known what the Plains felt like, had known about what this place was, what it meant before Scout Harding gave her a brief summary of it, she never would have brought Felix. How stupid to come to a new place and not know anything about it. She of all people should've been aware of what dangers could lurk beneath a land.

His eyes were rimmed in blue light, but they still held that color of bear fur. Tears continued to make tracks down his face, down his neck. He stared ahead with a dazed expression. “She can feel everything. She's – she's trying to make it better for me. _Maker_.” He inhaled shakily and collected himself with a level of grace Aslaug marveled at. His eyes shut. “It's so much – I,” he stopped speaking suddenly. “I cannot even imagine what this will feel like back home,” he murmured to himself although she heard him regardless.

“I'm sorry – had I known -” Felix was not Hrathgur. He could not yet steel himself to protect both Patience and himself, and Patience had taken on more burdens with Felix than she had with Hrathgur.

He patted his cheeks dry with a cotton kerchief he pulled from a pocket. “It is not your fault, my lady. I – I was unprepared and overwhelmed. It's not your doing, and certainly not Patience's fault. I believe she's used to...er...not me.” He gave her wobbly smile. “We hear about the Exalted Plains in Tevinter and we laugh to ourselves about the hypocrisy of the south for outlawing slavery, yet still allowing such blatant cruelty. Admittedly I never gave much consideration towards condemning slavery or the treatment of elves or spirits elsewhere, because it never crossed my mind. Patience considers everyone and everything. It is...impossible to avoid anything. Things I consciously and unconsciously avoided. It is painful and to feel it so...uninhibited as it is here, it is as though I am seeing colors for the first time in my life, after having them described to me by someone else who doesn't truly know either.” His brows furrowed. “I suppose I'm not making much sense.”

“You are,” she corrected. “They connect to us and we to them, and all the spaces in between both are filled.” Loyalty had shown her such beauty and terror and longing in the world. The first year after parting from a guiding spirit or god was always the hardest. It felt as though the empty spaces in the world were starker. It was why it was so important to be near other spirits, other mages, other people, and to connect to nature. To be without any of those things even in the smallest measure wasn't simply loneliness; she couldn't describe it because she had been fortunate. But she'd heard the cautionary tales of madness and depression, and a needing, gnawing emotion that had no true name. Felix, as well as he and Patience seemed to coexist, was still new at all this. It was her own folly that she took it for granted even if he was a grown man; he was nearly a child in this matter.

Patience may have been Hrathgur's partner for years, but they had agreed to save Felix because he was a good man. Whether or not Aslaug still had some mixed feelings about their unusual situation didn't matter – Hrathgur as much had told her it shouldn't matter to her, yet another lesson taught to her that she'd neglected.

“I'm not ungrateful,” he added gently. “It is _remarkable_. There is whole other world lain upon the one we have, even though this is an unpleasant example, I do not regret this. Not just for curing my sickness. There is just so much in the world and I feel as though I'd been skimming through a novel my whole life and am only just now sitting down to lose myself in it. I admit it's a little frightening.” He gave an apologetic smile. “My apologies, Inquisitor. I've been having a lot on my mind.”

“I know – or no. I didn't know. I never asked. I'm sorry,” she offered an awkward apology. Felix gave a slanted smile.

“I've been avoiding you, I confess.” Although he spoke lightheartedly, his focus seemed split between her and whatever he could still grappling with. “I feel guilty that your mentor passed on and I'm still alive. I've accepted death a long time ago. I know -”

“Do not feel guilty,” she snapped. Felix flinched and she shook her head in frustration at herself. “No – I mean. That is, do not feel guilty for living when he didn't. He knew. Patience knew. You deserved a chance.”

Felix nodded. “You loved him very much. I lost my mother. We were close like you and your mentor had been. I understand what it means to lose someone that important.”

She connected the constellation at last. “My grief is my own. It isn't something meant for anyone else to carry. Among the Avvar, we grieve death for a short time, but focus on celebrating the life of the dead. His and Patience's choice are not what caused him to die. Had it not been an enemy, it would have been time. And he would not have abided that.”

He didn't respond immediately so she hoped he took some of that to heart when she assumed he decided the conversation had concluded, but then he spoke in a very soft manner. “And have you celebrated his life?”

“No,” she responded shortly. She thought about leaving it at that, but she wanted to distract he and Patience from whatever they were experiencing. “To – to celebrate a life you must be free of negative emotions that tie you to that life. Hrathgur, by leaving the Hold in the way he did and leaving his protege in charge, so much as said he would likely die in the lowlands. I still should've ensured he made it back. I am...bound by my own feelings. Guilt, inadequacy.” She sent Felix a quick look. “You can't be happy for someone when you feel you've done them wrong.”

“He was happy to be with you, so can't you be happy about that at least? He talked of you quite often. He shared stories about your childhood and how...proud he was that you went to the Conclave, and what you accomplished.” He paused for a long moment. “I – I've seen...memories? Patience shared them with me. He had a very full life. He wasn't resentful or had any regrets. He loved you so much.”

There was a fist in her throat, and it held her voice and heart in its palm. “I love him too,” she murmured hoarsely.

Felix tipped his head apologetically. “My apologies – it's just that, well, Patience was concerned. And so was I. I owe you, and him, and Patience my life. I owe you all a debt I can never repay, and my sympathy may seem a paltry consolation, but please believe me when I say I will do all I can to prove myself to you.”

She knew, because Hrathgur had seen it, and so had Patience. “I know. And there is no debt. You are a good man who deserved a good turn.”

“I... _saw_ how your people pay their respects to the dead. If there is a way, that is if you would allow it, I would like to pay my respects to Hrathgur.”

She turned to look at him so quickly she heard her neck crack. “Yes. Yes, of course. He would – yes. I would like that as well.” She imagined Patience would also like to say a proper farewell to her partner of years. The spirit, even one as old and experienced as her, would've been affected in some way after leaving such a long term partner behind to what would've been certain death.

He smiled in a charmingly crooked way.

“Ahead! Quickly!” Solas's voice came from the front urgently before urging his mount into a nearly violent gallop. She and Felix snapped to attention with the others.

Beyond the trail, she saw more. Bodies. So many bodies. Some were so decayed that the skin was paper thin and bleached. Some, more disturbingly, began to move and twitch. A shudder ripped through her. The land was so uneasy and restless. The bodies were easy prey. Bodies of interlopers that this place had no desire to house.

It even affected the mounts. They were all wary, cautious, and rather skittish. Bjarni automatically swerved around an undead body that had picked its sword up. Its jaw was crooked. With a well placed kick from her warhorse, he assured the creature had no head within a moment.

A spirit of wrath roared in the distance. Molten flame boiled from the ground beneath it and it bellowed in want of a battle. From the level of concentration Solas displayed, she doubted he would think of stopping at this moment.

The level of carnage within the Plains had not been exaggerated. It went beyond the Hinterlands. But at least she saw no children, yet. But it was a small comfort in the light of the amount of unarmed corpses. It was like being back in the Mire. Corrupt gods, restless spirits, and the undead. Although the Mire invited the living, craved life, desperate like a leech whereas the Plains...Felix had said it best. An angry beast within a cage.

It felt wrong riding away.

She was pleased to see that Varric was firing off shots at the undead when he was able to from the back of his pony.

Solas spearheaded the group and drove them on fiercely. His desperation seemed to be waxing. She could only imagine what he felt or what caused that animal fear she had never seen from him before. Not since the future Redcliffe that hadn't come to pass.

The looping trail he set them on narrowed further.

He finally reined his hart to an abrupt stop, and dismounted in nearly the same breath.

“Solas!” she barked when he crouched to the ground. He held up a finger immediately. She snapped her jaw shut and clenched at his lack of communication. She and the others dismounted around him carefully.

Footprints in wet earth. Wet from – water? The packed dirt here hadn't seen rain in days, weeks perhaps. The heat was oppressive and dry. This wasn't a place that saw much water. The prints were hurried, heavy, and went in circles – these were not strategic combative movements; they were confused, frightened. Broken arrows littered the ground. They'd been snapped in half. More worrying, however, was the way a few of the arrowheads were smashed in pieces. Swords were shattered, cracked in the middle.

There was blood. Spots of it; it looked like her writing desk after she'd been practicing writing with ink and a quill. Red smears on the rocks and shreds of meat were caught on the sharper edges.

A body in the distance was a pitiful sight, a stuffed doll with its limbs bent in odd directions.

“We're close,” Solas whispered rhetorically. “My friend is near.”

Without taking her eyes off the body and the trail, her fingers hovered over a castoff, dented shield. There were grooves in it that resembled knuckles, but they were enormous. Something not quite fear, but close enough to be its sister, wrapped itself around her heart. “Is your friend a fighter, Solas?”

Spirits that reveled in combat didn't do terribly in the physical world if they were bound. They could be corrupted but the process took longer. They might still have time.

His shoulders tensed further and the anxious air seemed to vibrate with his energy. “No,” his answered clipped.

She inhaled swiftly and stepped away from the shield. She looked down the path that had obviously been tread recently. Not good. Not good. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears like a drum. Solas stood slowly. He held his staff tightly. She reached out and clasped his shoulder. “We should move.” Even as she spoke, she hesitated. “Solas?” She wasn't able to see his face, but she'd heard his voice, saw the way he held himself and the rigidity that followed his long spine. She needed to know. If it were Loyalty she wouldn't know if she could swing the blade to finish him. Would Solas be strong enough to? She wasn't certain.

“Come what may, Aslaug, but please allow me to care for my friend.” Solas tilted his head slightly. She searched his face, for what, she didn't know, but he slipped away before she could say anything else and the moment was gone just as easily.

Their companions brought up the rear. Varric, oddly, was extremely quiet. He looked uncomfortable, uneasy. Iron Bull was tensed for a fight and there was a hard downward slant in his expression. Solas held most of her attention and her worry, but she extended what was left of her focus to regard Felix. He was colorless again, sweating. His eyes were a bright blue.

Dread built and built. It was the crescendo of a song before the climax. Her stomach was a maze, knots upon knots. She shouldn't have allowed Felix along. When the advisors suggested it, it made sense, she understood it – had any of her Holdmates tried executing Loyalty even if he'd been corrupted, she would have fought. Now, seeing it...she made a mistake. Something in her wailed at the thought.

And yet all they could do was follow the trail.

More footprints, more blood, more broken steel. A roar – the sound of something between a lion and a bear – a twisted thing of agonized fury, shook the earth and Solas gasped. “No – no. My friend.”

Corrupted. Profaned – a beast of Pride. It stood between pillars, roaring and clawing madly at the air. The area around it creature felt duller, as if she was perceiving it from a great distance with poor eyesight. It was oppressive and suffocating. Everything felt muted. Solas made a noise and then he was moving, shouting an instruction she barely caught in her own dazed confusion. A snap of lightning hit one of the pillars around his friend.

Iron Bull let out a bellow and was already on the way to hack at another pillar. She forced herself to move through magic and snow to arrive before another one and she nearly gagged at the wave of nausea she got simply being near it. It felt like needles beneath her skin, prickling her the whole while. It was awful, terrible, crushing, and brutal.

The profaned spirit sent out a whip of electricity. She caught the sting with the brunt of the shield she fumbled to raise in time. The tip crackled and burned her cheek. Sparks blinded her for a moment. There was no time to breathe. “Move your ass!” Iron Bull shouted, but his warning came too late.

A fist planted itself in her shield, and though she bent her knees and poised herself to take the hit, it was simply too much. She was up, and flying, and for a brief moment of palpable panic she thought of Hrathgur in the air and landing as a pile of broken bones and unseeing eyes.

A barrier was cast on her and she knew it was Solas from the distinct imprint, so she bounced and rolled when she landed relatively unharmed. She got up ungainly and breathed in, out, in frost and snow, but it was difficult here. It was so hot and dry. She'd felt the obvious change in her magic – the land didn't want her and there was a struggle to call forth her mana she'd never experienced in any of the other places she'd been in thus far.

A hand at her elbow made her twitch. “Destroy the pillars – my friend will not last much longer. Please Aslaug, we must be quick,” he said urgently. “ _Please_.”

Magic flowed from Solas and Felix, Varric's bolts buried in a pillar and brought it down in an explosion of dust with a well placed grenade. Aslaug brought her shield down on another, spearing it and forcing her mana to pool enough to freeze it even in the heat. Iron Bull kept the beast's attention -

The last post split with a great cracking noise.

The beast fell and Solas rushed forward, she not far behind with her glaive ready. Scales and horned crests flaked away to reveal a feminine elven figure. A spirit, whole and pure. Saved.

But it wasn't, not truly. She could feel the weakness surround the spirit. It was dying. Its tattered clothing caught on the breeze. Solas framed its face with his hands and spoke in elvish. He was downtrodden, disappointed. Whatever their exchange was, it was far less than what Solas had imagined. The spirit's voice was soft, kind, and its gaze – green god-fire in its eyes as it sat dying in Solas's hands – found Felix then skipped to Aslaug. She relaxed her grip on her weapon. The spirit spoke and Solas's reply was harsher, rougher, but his shoulders slumped in what looked to be defeat.

The spirit lay its hands on Solas's face and it started disintegrating like a pile of ashes at the bottom of a fire pit. “ _Ma nuvenin_ ,” the language was beautiful but the words sounded as though they had been scraped from his throat. Aslaug looked away respectfully. It was not for any of them but him.

The spirit was gone. Solas remained crouching where he was. His hands were outstretched for a long moment until he let them rest on his thighs. 

She stabbed her glaive into the softer dirt and squatted next to him. “I am sorry,” she said. There were no words for what she saw. She imagined whatever spirit this was might've been his mentor. His Loyalty. His Someone. Words failed her, and there existed none that would have comforted him, none that wouldn't have cheapened what he just had to do. What they had failed to prevent. She pressed her arm against his. She offered her hand, palm open, to him and he took it, shaking. His fingers clamped around hers.

He said nothing, but leaned into her.

She heard a brief commotion behind them, the sound of Varric and Iron Bull speaking, and other voices she didn't recognize. She didn't turn, didn't allowed herself to move at all.

“We were too late,” he murmured. “My friend was bound against its will and now it is gone.”

Her thumb ran across his hand. “It will return as it had begun as.”

“Yes. I suppose I must be comforted that some part of it will return, if nothing else. It will have none of its past memories, though. At least I was able to guide it to its death gently,” he said on a long exhale.

“You were able to say goodbye,” she offered finally.

“Yes. There is that.”

She noticed belatedly that their skin was sticking together, and despite the fact that she'd stripped off her furs and thicker leathers early on, she was still sweating profusely in the weather. She shifted away since she imagined that was uncomfortable for him.

“That's not necessary,” he said under his breath. “But Aslaug...thank you.”

She moved slowly and let her forehead rest against his, close enough that her eyelashes touched his cheek. He went very still, but then shut his eyes. “What was your spirit friend?” she asked.

“Wisdom. One of my oldest friends.” He tipped forward slightly and she nearly sank completely into him.

“Now that you have died, may you return again as you were meant to be. A cycle for an eternity, for always,” she murmured in common tongue for his benefit.

“What was that? A prayer?”

“Yes, for the spirits and gods. To rise and rise again, and return to us if they wish. What did the elves do for their dead?” she asked. She didn't know what the Dalish did, had never educated herself on the matter despite Hrathgur's insistence that she did. Solas said he wasn't Dalish, but surely he'd know.

He pulled back. “The Dalish bury their dead beneath a tree, but it is a far cry from what the ancient elves did. The elves of Arlathan, the elvhen, didn't die. They slept.”

She'd heard very little of the ancient elves, but even she knew that they'd been immortal before something had caused death to touch them. “Did they wake after they slept?”

He froze. “Some, yes. Others simply fell into their dreams because they tired of the waking world,” he rasped. “And what do your people do for the spirits that have died?”

“We believe that spirits and gods must die to return as their best self, and we must guide them back to us so they can be welcomed home. We build a guidepost and leave offerings. We sing them a song and chant to them for a year before they reappear whole. They are them, but new.”

“What are you doing? Get away from me!” a voice yelped behind them.

He let his hand slip away. He stood slowly and she saw the transformation in his eyes, in his face, all the way down his body.

A small group of mages had apparently approached them but had been headed off by Iron Bull and Varric. Felix was nowhere in sight.

“ _You_ ,” he snarled and took long strides toward them. Aslaug got to her feet and kept pace with him. “You did this – you. You murdered my friend, enslaved it!”

The mage closest to him threw up his hands. “Now, now, I – I understand how you might misunderstand what happened, but -”

“No.” He was final. He sounded like a thane giving a death sentence. “You understand nothing. You do not comprehend even a scrap of the knowledge you believe you hold. The gravity of this is beyond you and your fumbling. Worse than the crime of simple ignorance is the belief that slavery is an acceptable course of action, that instead of sympathy for another's suffering there is not even the realization that they can feel.”

She smelled heat in the air, the crackle of lightning. Iron Bull dwarfed the others and he eyed them carefully, before turning his lone eye on Solas. Varric remained in the background with his crossbow out and a grimace on his face.

She edged closer to Solas and adjusted her body so she remained partially in front of another mage. “Solas.”

He didn't even blink and his gaze sharpened, mouth thinned to a straight line.

“Solas.” He looked then and that furious intent looked back with him. She hated to do this. But seeing the Circle mages, seeing the lowlanders, speaking with them and with Felix, she understood more. They were but children in this matter. If a child touched a flame, you tended to it and told them why they couldn't do that again. You didn't hold their hand to the fire. She knew, she felt his pain, because she wouldn't have had such composure if Loyalty had died before her. Solas was often the rational voice, the one who explained things to her.

He needed such a voice now.

“No,” she said. “No. They are ignorant as you say. And they don't know – do not do what I know you want to in this moment. A child must be taught and unlearn poor habits.”

Solas stared her down, but she held her ground. His eyes slid from her, to them, back to her. “I cannot fathom why you are doing this now, of all times,” he hissed.

“Because I must. Because if it had been Loyalty, I would be standing where you are, and you would be standing where I am. I know, _I know_ , Solas,” she pleaded. Her voice was thick with sympathy and frustration.

He inhaled swiftly and turned his head to the side. “I...know you do.” He deflated. “Please excuse me. I need some time alone. I will find wherever you lay camp later.”

Solas left.

Aslaug remained with the mages and her companions, and throughout it all she still didn't see Felix anywhere.


	38. helgistaðr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helgistaðr - holy place
> 
> song list (since a few people have been asking what songs I listen to when writing) for this chapter will be posted to my tumblr (like, eventually hopefully soon)

Had she erred again? Probably. It was within his rights to demand satisfaction from these mages – and it was not her place to deny him such a thing. In a proper Hold, no thane or augur would have dared intervene and prevent him from taking his blood-price from these lowlanders. She wouldn't lie and judge herself to be a proper thane, because Skyhold wasn't a normal or proper Hold, but it was hers. And in this instance, she was responsible for stepping in.

They huddled together like sheep, like children afraid of the dark. She wasn't a shepherd. She wasn't a mother, a father. She was no one and nothing to them, save for a barbarian out of her element. Her jaw clenched so tightly it ticked. She'd taken Solas's blood-price when by rights it hadn't been her place. That meant she was responsible for them now.

“He – he was going to kill us!” one of them sputtered the accusation in a shaky voice, finger pointing in the direction Solas had taken with his hart.

She turned from them. “Iron Bull – can you find Felix? He was not well earlier.” Iron Bull was capable of subduing Felix if it was necessary.

The warrior gave her a knowing glance. “Sure, boss. You'll be alright with them?” He nodded to the mages.

Varric was weighing the grenades at his hip casually. “Oh go on, Tiny. War Paint and I got this. They wouldn't do anything untoward after she just saved their miserable hides from a big, bad demon and an angry elf.”

The mages didn't seem completely reassured, instead taking stock of the rogue and giving her intimidated looks. Iron Bull huffed and turned to his mount, lifting on to her back and directing her away.

The mage who'd spoken on behalf of the group opened his mouth but Aslaug was on him in a moment. With one hand held up and close enough to threaten to muffle him, she towered over him. She used her height as an advantage and loomed ominously, face drawn grimly. “Swallow your words before you choke,” she warned. The mage gulped loudly and those behind him shuddered.

“What are you going to do to us?” a young woman asked. By Aslaug's estimation, she hadn't been long out of her majority winters. She clutched a battered staff tightly to her side.

Aslaug gave her a severe frown. It would be irresponsible to allow them to leave – they'd proven they had acted rashly and had bound a spirit against its will, then had been unable to release it back into the land of dreams. They'd failed even to grant it a painless death. “You are in the custody of the Inquisition,” she declared. “You will be judged and the cost will be decided by the one who spared what had been his.”

She couldn't allow Solas to kill them, but he deserved the power to help decide their fate. Ignorance was a reason, not an excuse. They _would_ be educated. After a confrontation with Dorian, supported by Felix, he learned to _try_ to be better. These mages could learn too.

“'The – the one who spared what was his'? Why – you can't possibly – but -” the mage sputtered.

Aslaug's hand slapped over his mouth and his noise making immediately died. She leaned closer. She'd saved them from Solas's admittedly intimidating wrath, and would give them a new chance to better understand something that had been purposefully misleading when taught to them. It didn't mean she wasn't angry, or frustrated, or annoyed.

She leaned close and the mage's eyes widened, she felt his nostrils flare and the stickiness of mucus touched her fingers while his breathing quickened. “Quiet.”

“We won't struggle,” the same girl piped up. “I swear, messere.”

There was a part of her that was disappointed by that. The part that was wholly rooted in her heritage shook her head in disappointment at the lack of fight in these mages in their once fine clothes, likely used to three meals a day in their Tower. Perhaps when she'd been younger and without the experience she'd had while in the lowlands, she would have shook one of them like a dog with a toy if only to get them to fight. They'd been unable to face the bandits, and had summoned a spirit. From the lack of scorched earth and signs of magical battle, they hadn't even attempted to defend themselves.

But with that harsher outlook was the acknowledgment that they bumbled in the outside the way they did because they hadn't ever been taught. They looked filthy because they were unused to scouring their skin with earthly materials not bought from a market. They looked half-starved because they didn't know how to live off the land, or hunt or fish. They'd summoned the spirit because they didn't really know how to fight. They'd bound the unwilling spirit because they weren't taught that it was wrong.

Aslaug removed her hand and wiped it on his shoulder. “You will come with us to a camp. You'll be seen to, and we will discuss what you can do to pay for your crime.” They would have to start somewhere while Solas sought a reprieve from the world around him.

“We didn't use blood magic -” the man loudly began again and Aslaug regretted removing her hand so soon.

“I care little for that. We will talk later.” She regarded the young woman who kept better composure than her three companions. “You will follow my friend and myself to a camp.” The warning was clear.

She nodded clearly. “Yes, messere.”

They followed her lead sedately.

“'You care little for that'? Have something to tell me, War Paint?” Varric grumbled.

“My people use blood magic, but not for these purposes. The Avvar are not as Tevinters; using the blood of slaves, or the innocent, or children. We've used our enemies as sacrifices, and only those willing to give blood,” she deflected. She knew some of the lowland squeamishness surrounding that particular brand of magic and in light of the day they'd faced, she didn't want to hear further rebukes about why the lowland mages knew so much better than the Avvar.

Varric hummed. “Not a very far leap though, is it?” he asked rhetorically, but didn't continue.

They camped further along the water's edge and closer inland. She didn't want to stray too far from water. The mages stunk and they had to tend to themselves. Aslaug told them as much, stretched too thin to utilize her taught mannerisms and so she fell back into the reflexive embrace of her people's ways. She gave them her paste and oil, and fashioned temporary strigils out of the slivers of obsidian that dotted the land like adolescent pockmarks with an equal force of ice magic and steel. They looked confused by the tools so she'd been forced to give a brief demonstration with her patience whittling away little by little.

If the mages were offended by her blunt brusqueness, they didn't say. They wandered to the water behind the rocks, near enough so she could still hear the shuffle of their clothing and grumbling amongst each other. The two women went first while the men waited for their turn awkwardly. Aslaug played guard, glaive at the ready, while she unloaded Bjarni and set camp. Varric had taken his devilish pony toward a herd of little fat creatures Aslaug recognized from the mountains. They were shaggier in the mountains and their tusks weren't cute nubs, but rather things that could gore the bowels of the unwary. The Avvar called them stridsvinor.

These ones were rather stupid and defenseless.

Varric brought down two quickly and loaded them on his pony. In the distance, she saw him pause and he seemed to be observing something. She couldn't see what he saw. Fighting, probably. Or death. The Plains had an abundance of both.

The mages took their turns and were finished shortly. Their robes were wet but they seemed to have washed them as best they could.

Aslaug started a fire and unpacked an iron pot, cups, and dwarven cooking rods that could be folded down or extended.

Varric returned with his quarry and nodded at the women, greeting them kindly, before venturing to the water's edge. He used a tall rock to set up a makeshift station to clean the animals, removing the skin first and using it as parchment for meat he butchered a little haphazardly. He cast the guts into the deeper end of the water.

The mages waited anxiously while she and Varric speared chunks of the animals over an open flame. Varric corrected her and called them _snoufleur_. Bones and gristle and fat were laid in the potful of water and set close to the fire with its lid on.

There was little Aslaug wanted to discuss on an empty stomach. There was very little she wanted to say at all. She worried, mostly. About Solas. About Felix. The worry was divided nearly evenly between the two. She moved without thought.

Smells of roasting meat and boiling fat filled the small campsite. She heard the grumble of a stomach offered cooked meat to the mages beside her.

They paid no mind to their more delicate sensibilities when they fell upon food and got grease over the faces and hands. Varric laughed lightly from his seat on a rock. He puffed on his pipe. “Easy there,” he teased. “There's enough for everybody.”

Small cups carved from smooth rock were given to each of the mages, and Aslaug poured in the boiled fat, adding dried herbs and stale tack to them. Despite the confused faces, they drank deeply. She and Varric partook once the mages' appetites showed signs of slowing.

Iron Bull hadn't returned with Felix yet, and Solas wasn't likely to be back yet. She still kept watch for them. The shadows grew longer. The dusk colored the sky. There was no sign of them yet. She went long moments without blinking, barely paying attention as she ate.

Solas's face gripped in sorrow, twisted in anger. His resignation. Felix's pain and confusion. Bad enough they arrived too late to save Solas's friend, but she had exposed Felix to it.

One of the mages rolled a cup between his hands. “What's going to happen to us?” he asked quietly. “There's no Order, no Circle...what are you going to do with us?”

Tension buzzed in the camp, a hive of bees to be prodded. Aslaug swallowed what was left in her cup and set it aside. The leftover uncooked meat was wrapped neatly in the hides Varric had very quickly skinned, and Aslaug placed an ice glyph beneath them.

“When my companion returns, you'll know. In meantime, you will be with us. The Exalted Plains could use people who know how to heal or set wards.” She eyed them knowingly. “And then we will decide what to do with you.” It would end with them finding a place in the Inquisition, but what Solas had in mind before then, she couldn't say.

“When you say the Inquisition...” the young woman began. “That means you're taking us to the Inquisitor aren't you? Is she going to execute us?”

“I heard she performs public executions herself and uses the corpses for displays,” one of the mages confessed with a whimper.

“She's an Avvar,” another hissed. “She'll sacrifice us to one of those animal gods.”

Varric turned slowly to give her an amused look. Aslaug was less than impressed. “No, she won't.”

One of them considered her skeptically. “I don't recognize your style of dress, stranger. And you haven't given us your name,” he said suspiciously.

“I'm Aslaug. And I'm Avvar,” she returned flatly.

The silence she received was incredibly embarrassing to experience, even secondhand. Varric laughed loudly.

The time spent waiting for the return of their other companions passed by slowly.

It was early nightfall when Felix and Iron Bull rode in. She was slightly disappointed she didn't see Solas ride in behind them. More waiting. Felix's gelding looked worse for wear. The poor creature foamed in old sweat and his ears alternated between flattening and swiveling. He gnashed at his bit and side stepped around the unknown mages, snorting and flaring his nostrils. Iron Bull's giant nug blew out a long exhale and brushed aside a pile of small stones, and tipped down slowly. The warrior hopped off of her and removed her riding wear.

Felix led Decimus to the edge of the water to clean him without acknowledging them.

The mages were silent and watchful. They'd only gotten used to Varric's easy going temperment and striking humor, and had come to a cautious acceptance of Aslaug's rocky nature. Now they had others to contend with.

“Hey, boss,” Iron Bull greeted easily. Aslaug put more meat over the fire and handed him a cup that he chugged quickly. “The kid's okay, just a little shook up. He just needed to go out for a ride.” He gave her a significant look, but didn't specify further for which she was grateful for. “We ran across a Dalish clan across the river, by the way. Looks like they could use some help. Moving in this war isn't easy for them.”

Aslaug didn't understand the undercurrent to his voice, although it seemed as though Varric did judging by his displeased grunt. Varric caught her confusion. “Humans and elves, War Paint. Even if there wasn't a war on, it wouldn't be easy for the Dalish to move around.”

Her lips pursed. No wonder the anger in the land roiled and bucked like an unruly animal. It wasn't allowed to be put to rest. Aslaug was beyond herself; she had no idea, not an inkling, of how to appease a land so scarred and tormented. Offerings and rituals would not fix this. Time would, but how much and when it would be given, she couldn't say.

Iron Bull pulled the meat off the fire. Between large bites of that and tack, he addressed the issue at hand. “So, what're we gonna do with them?” He jerked his horned head in the direction of the mages. “Sure, magic is weird...but that was demon shit, boss.”

She scrubbed her hand with one hand. “They will be placed in with the Inquisition, under guard.”

Iron Bull hummed. “I thought this sort of thing was illegal for your people?”

“It is.” She scratched the back of her neck self consciously. “But they know it is, and why. There are no Circles, no templars and they proved to be poor teachers. It falls to us. We'll have to teach them.”

He chewed thoughtfully. “You're asking for a lot of people to change their mind about something that's been accepted as truth for a long time.”

She frowned stubbornly. “I have to; if they don't know then they should be made aware, shouldn't they?” She wasn't entirely sure about all the duties that an Inquisitor was meant to fulfill, but surely this would be one of them? There were other ways, so perhaps she was meant to show them. Even patient, kind Hrathgur hadn't hesitated to give her a good swat when she hadn't been trying hard enough or was paying attention.

Iron Bull cocked his head. “Careful,” he said lightly, “you sound like a tamassran.”

“A what?” She didn't know that word.

“Really, Tiny?” Varric drawled with less than his usual humor. Iron Bull shrugged.

“Just an observation. Don't worry about it.”

  
  


…

  
  


Iron Bull hadn't been forthcoming with details of what exactly had occurred with Felix. It wasn't until the following day when Aslaug decided to follow Iron Bull's advice to seek out the Dalish clan that Felix spoke of what happened. Panic. Fear. Pain. Wisdom's suffering had permeated deeply enough to break through Patience's accustomed guard to touch Felix who reacted strongly to its death. Nearly violently, he'd confessed. The Plains were no place for him when he was so fragile; more delicate than she'd ever realized. She would have sent him on his way if she'd thought he could manage being on his own, but she couldn't. He had to be kept close for the time being. Children recently bonded to a spirit were supervised by other mages in the Hold, others with magic-blood and shamans, spirits. They were never left to their own devices; in the Fade or the mortal realm.

Patience was tried and true; she had taught many mages and had willingly bonded with a mortal partner for decades. Felix was still new to...everything.

She didn't want to know what he and Patience could be capable of if they were incapable of controlling their symbiotic emotions. Felix had proven to be a powerful healer, and with Patience's nature it only enhanced that branch of magic. Healers, in her experience, could be terrifyingly effective – she'd watched him against enemies on the field.

Felix had been afraid, truly afraid, for the first time. “It was like seeing my future if I do not remain steadfast. I don't want to turn into an abomination and I don't want Patience to be corrupted,” he'd admitted. “Patience is telling me I cannot rush myself – but I'm still a threat to _her_ , aren't I?”

A real fear, and one not without its own weight in reality. She didn't know what to say. She told him what Hrathgur had told her before, what Loyalty had told her once as a girl frightened of the moving shadows on a cave wall. “Don't feed the wolf. It will not tire and it will never be full.” She'd clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. It had comforted her once, perhaps it would him.

She wasn't entirely certain she had helped, but he seemed more at ease.

What could be done with the mages until Solas returned was another puzzle, and she imagined coming up in a full company would cause the clan to be standoffish. They were released into Scout Harding's temporary care – who had happened upon them again somehow, and had brought a message from Solas: “I am well.”

There was a part of her that was hurt, and annoyed that she felt hurt when she knew grief and the cost of failure was personal. She couldn't be disappointed he might wish for time alone to mourn. The flashback of seeing him in his rage, stalking towards the mages with intent, made her somewhat unnerved. She'd thought that the Solas of Redcliffe had been easier to understand, and perhaps she wasn't wrong. It didn't make his teeth any less daunting when faced with them.

The Dalish clan was cautious, but friendlier than she'd been expecting. Of course her only experience with a Dalish clan was limited to the time when Lurkerhold ran them off their territory and even then she'd been a child.

She'd had sudden stroke of inspiration while she'd been knee deep in the river and heading off a rift that had caused the clan to be plagued with demons. She'd meant to leave a memento for Wisdom and an offering to Solas's loss, but had thus been unsure how to go about it. Avvar symbols and drawings were all well and good if the spirit had been close to an Avvar – Solas was not Avvar, didn't know their songs or their language. He was an elf, and to her knowledge, he was fluent in his people's ancient language. Wisdom would know his language, and it would be their connection. A thread across the worlds, wrapped around one wrist for another to find. Besides, the land gods in this place were buried deep in the land, but they were still very present all around them. Their presence pressed in more than the Hinterlands and to do this she needed acceptance, however small, in order for the guidepost to work. She wasn't going to get it on her own.

The Keeper of the clan – a mage she understood functioned as a thane and an augur simultaneously – was wary of her intentions. “You must understand,” he said with his hands folded behind his back. “That shemlen have long since claimed our history and culture and have tried to remove it. We are protective of what we have left, and guard it to the best of our abilities.”

“An exchange?” she bartered. “What needs do your clan have that you cannot meet?” She rested her eyes on their low supplies, a small cave where they presumably kept their food stores, and the broken wheels of their land ships.

The Keeper pursed his lips. “We do not _need_ assistance, shemlen,” he corrected. “But we would not turn down the offer. There is a graveyard not far from here. I believe it is beset by demons. It is the resting place of our ancestors and we would like to visit, but many of my clan are fearful for what lies in wait. If you were to remove the evil that stalks the graves, we would be grateful and I would think on your request.”

“Graves,” Varric muttered. “Why doesn't anyone take me somewhere nice?”

“Of all the people to ask to take you to dinner, Varric,” Iron Bull laughed.

The Keeper frowned.

Aslaug gave them a brief, pinched glance before turning Bjarni towards the graves the Keeper had pointed out.

The graves were worse than the other parts of the Plains. The air was sour and felt damp, it was unbearably hot but it still raised the hairs on the back of her neck and her arms.

“Oh good. I was worried it wasn't going to be creepy,” Varric remarked dryly after a pot cracked and burst.

Gods of rage, glutting on the memories of the Plains, rose from the ground. Shades of unfinished dreams and nightmares in the skins of the men who made them clawed from the tombstones. A demon of terror shrieked as it pulled its limbs over its torso and head, walking backward to them. It certainly wasn't the worst of the battles she'd faced, but it was miserable enough. The heat dampened her ice magic and her storm was affected by the lack of connection she found with the land. Every move was sluggish. The others were unmindful of the heat – Iron Bull mentioned the sweating heat of the jungle, Varric spoke of damp, sunny Kirkwall, and Felix even commented that Minrathous had people packed so closely together that even if it were less hot the body heat alone would raise the temperature.

She hoped to never visit those places.

The deed done, the corrupt gods torn from the mortal world, and Felix's color seemed to have returned to him. His eyes were brighter. Something somewhere approved. 

The Keeper, if he was impressed by their deeds, didn't show it and only granted her a small roll of vellum. “Payment for a favor done. I will trust you with this much from my people.”

She was about to turn away when Felix caught her elbow. Patience looked out through Felix's eyes, the color of lyrium, and smiled gently. Aslaug turned back. “Do you need -” she broke off, remembered his wounded pride, “Would you like any more help?”

The Keeper's lips softened from the thin line. “It would be welcome,” he responded and pointed at a large book – a _ledger_ , Josephine would call it - “We are eager to put more distance between us and the fighting, but our necessities must come first.” His eyes swept over Aslaug keenly. “I had never thought a barbarian from the mountains would aid the Dalish. Strange times, very strange,” he murmured. 

He offered a blessing for their willingness to help. Aslaug was no fool. She took it.

The land breathed again – still volatile and ferocious – but it no longer wished to drag her in the dirt.

Felix or Patience or maybe both, smiled slightly at her. She smiled back. She could tentatively connect with the land again; it was still too hot and hungry to be comfortable but she was not the focus of its negativity. She regarded the prize in her hand. With luck, she could have it done before Solas met with their group again.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avvar codex - 
> 
> stridsvin, stridsvinor (pl.) - the Frostback Mountains are home to the more dangerous cousins of the snoufleur, which are native to Orlais and are popular prey. The stridsvinor have longer tusks and while they are capable of defending themselves, they, like their cousins, prefer to flee. (non canon) 
> 
> Land gods – (excerpt taken from Circle scholar's notes) it is the Avvar belief that the spirits within a country that remain there are what are known as “land gods”. These land gods are influenced by events that have happened there, and while do no necessarily have an allegiance to any one in particular, they often simulate the mortals they empathize with. Typically these people are mages or those who live most close to the land; such as the Dalish, Chasind, Avvar, and other nomadic or tribal cultures. It is necessary to one's survival and indeed success in any endeavor to form some kind of relationship with the gods that live in the lands. To do otherwise invites bad luck and the wrath of said gods. (non canon)
> 
> Connection to lands and magic – (excerpt taken from a Circle scholar's notes) The Avvar have a peculiar belief; the lands affect magic in such a way that it can bolster power or allow a mage to perform with greater ease, or it can hinder them to the point of punishment. Several Circle mage scholars have done studies on this as this belief extends to the Chasind. The idea fascinates some: that lands hold memories and echoes and as such form nearly sentient personalities that can prevent a mage from pulling mana or the efficacy of a simple healing spell. If true, it would explain the intuitive, crude methods of hedge mages, as well as the Chasind and Avvar mages who seemingly do not need the careful instruction of the Circle or even what the Imperium offers. It falls short, however, of explaining the talent of Dalish mages – to which an Avvar shaman who had been interviewed by an Orlesian scholar said, “They do not need to be tied to the world as we do.” It has been dismissed as more superstition. (non canon)


	39. andaran atish'an

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song used: gravity by a perfect circle

A pot full of water with a tightly closed lid over a high fire wouldn't simply hiss quietly if it was left alone. It would boil over and scald an unwary hand. Pressure and time had an undeniable effect. A perfect storm. He'd bitten his tongue on many occasions and had choked his rebukes back like withholding bile so often that it sat like a poison curdling around his heart. He'd nearly slipped completely in front of Aslaug and the others; that rage lurking behind his calm had eyes that peered from behind the curtain. He'd wanted to snarl at her like an animal caught in a trap that didn't know a kind hand from a malicious one. _What do you know?_ He'd wanted to demand. _You are separated from your people but you are not a solitary creature in the world with no people and no home to call your own. You are not a bygone relic living a life that is not your own_.

But she hadn't deserved that. Aslaug had had an awakening of her own. He'd seen the slow growth of it and had never resented that change that had slowly opened her to a new perspective. Not until she'd protected the wayward mages, if they could even be called that. Murderers sounded more fitting. A brief moment had hardened him completely and he'd called to mind that term she'd used before “blood-price”. Had he demanded satisfaction and cited that they owed him a _blood-price_ for the death and enslavement of his friend, what would she have done? She was caught between a clash of cultures and thus far had managed to balance them. That event might've been the first real tipping point.

He believed that had he gone through with his reflexive action, she would have reluctantly acquiesced. She would have allowed him to kill them. Part of him regretted the missed opportunity, but he was shamefully relieved that he'd stormed off instead.

She'd told him that children had to be corrected when they developed bad habits.

An imperfect metaphor that fell sadly short of the circumstances that existed, but he understood the core of the sentiment. How could someone be held accountable for something they didn't know was wrong? It was a murky situation, because he was torn between his belief and what he was in the process of realizing was his current reality. He hadn't been when the venture began and now, faced with the death of his dearest friend, he found pity. Pity for the ignorance that prevailed. To say he was unhappy at the revelation was an understatement. Pity grew from sympathy and led the way to empathy. A grievous error. He was a stone rolling down a hill and gaining velocity. He had tried to slow the rate at which he tumbled and it seemed as if it was for naught.

Solas beheld the Exalted Plains, which he'd gathered from his agents was called Dirthavaren by the Dalish, with exhausted eyes. This was no promise land. It was not Arlathan. It was not the seat of an empire of magic and wonder, of the true elvhen. But he did hold some sympathy for their plight. In a world of humans, this would have been a haven for them. Perhaps they would never be elvhen, but the elves could have had a voice of their own in the clamor of humanity.

He could understand what it meant to be lost in a world where you alone didn't belong.

Upon the hour of his waking, he'd been bombarded with change. Crude castles built on the ruins of an ancient war. History unremembered, misinterpreted, misunderstood. Falsehoods and lies believed as fact and accepted without question. And despite all the disappointments of the new world, filled with its new people, he found the persistent existence of slavery abhorrent, of the strong feasting upon the weak. Such inevitability was tiring.

He'd attempted to connect with the ones who called themselves elvhen, the descendants of the immortals, and had failed at every turn. Whatever luck Felassan had had with modern elves, Solas found himself unable to channel.

He'd withdrawn to Wisdom for guidance and it had attempted to soothe his ire and impatience to no avail. Wisdom had been his only source of companionship besides the other spirits he'd made an acquaintance of, and it was gone. Gone like the majority of his anger at the witless actions of the human mages.

He was as alone as he had been when he'd awakened from his slumber. Adrift and without an anchor, he was misplaced creature within a world without song and color.

He'd misled Aslaug. It felt wrong, as it always did, to lie to someone so incapable of dishonesty and who wore it so poorly. She'd likely expected him to find them much earlier and he had yet to make the effort, instead glutting himself on distractions that were found in assisting the scouts and soldiers, on healing and fighting.

However, he hadn't been ready to return to camp. Wisdom...

Its enslavement was not something he had ever envisioned possible. He had certainly never anticipated its death by his own hands. He had not been prepared to lose the last link to his people, the last one with which he could share memories with freely. Someone who spoken elven fluently and understood him so completely.

It had begged for release and he had granted it. Mercy was not always kind to everyone.

“ _It is good to see you, my friend,_ ” it had said. “ _I am sorry this will be the last time we meet. But I am glad that you are not alone._ ”

“ _I walk alone, still. I failed you. I am so sorry I could not stop this,_ ” but his apology was lost to the spirit when it laid its hands on his face.

“ _You would not feel so alone if you only turned your head, friend_ ,” and then it looked at Aslaug who stood the distance of several arms' away.

“ _That is not my purpose – she has no place in what must come,_ ” in his mind this mantra was spoken with dignity and cool calm. They had come out as a roughened tumble, an abrasion that caught on his tongue reluctantly.

But Wisdom just smiled as if to humor a delusion, and asked for liberation. When had he ever refused such a request?

He'd lost a friend, a confidante, a comfort, a piece of home when it was so far away. His dreams would be emptier without his friend. Even in its hour of suffering, it offered advice, however misguided it might've been. Turn his head, indeed. He had. He saw. He'd turned away again to face the path before him.

A long, lonely road that twisted into a mirror in which Fen'Harel awaited his release from the limits of the solitary apostate Solas. If he turned his head again, he might see a way to stray from his goal. A side path with icy brambles and powdery snow. That path was more appealing than it should be, because a human waited at the end of that shorter and mordacious path.

Nothing grew on the path to Fen'Harel, certainly not the tough winter flowers and fruits that bloomed belatedly on the other one. There was no smell of embrium, no chilling bite of cold, and no alien beauty slow to emerge. It led the way to somewhere else. A place that had no name, and one he could not give a name to.

A place he'd slowly come to desperately wish to traverse. A selfish thing. It was an ambush; this terrible, sweet selfishness that yearned to just...

See that unrestrained place of fantasy that beckoned.

He had been faltering for a long while. He would admit it freely, if only to himself. It would be cruel to do this. There was no happy ending, no place for long-term contentment.

His destination would never change. His course was set. But he could not foresee every aspect of his journey – Wisdom's shocking death had proved that, his begrudging commiseration towards the short-lived beings around him. She couldn't be _the_ end, but she might be _his_ end if he so dared. It would make what he had to do so much harder if he truly allowed it, but he'd already encouraged her by saying all he needed was time when it was so much more complicated than that.

It was a thing of beautiful denial that had been effectively ripped away after he'd processed Wisdom's death and had begun grieving for his friend, to turn its advice over in his mind, that he'd already been walking down that road, slipping on the ice and getting snagged on frosty thorns. He'd taken tentative steps only to quickly backtrack once he realized his curiosity and fascination had urged him closer again and again. They said madness was to do the same thing over and over again, and expect different results. 

It had become a pattern, to sink down into the rising water, to step on that untamed walkway, and each time he'd noticed, he'd pulled away as soon as he was able. The indecisiveness was so unlike him. While he hardly held himself to be quite so impulsive, he was often firm, or confident. She made it so difficult. What little comfort he had of his old world was gone, and soon, the comfort he'd found in this new one would be as well. He found himself wandering in the Fade where once Wisdom's territory had been, but it was dismantled entirely. There was nothing left of it there, and what would form in its place would not be his friend. 

It made him register, with a special ache, that one day Aslaug would be gone as well. 

The thought wormed its way in and wouldn't release him. She wasn't a shadow to be so easily overlooked. He would _miss_ her once his mission was completed. His grieving would never end, evidently. Whether it was for his past and his people, or the companions he'd become accustomed to, friendly with, or a human woman who he...

It was easier to lose himself to tasks and to wander the Fade searching for the memories that would force him to remember his purpose, that would bring to mind the reasons this world had to be sacrificed. He found them, but he also found memories familiar and new.

He was stretched thin, pulled in multiple directions enough that the threads holding him together had begun to split apart.

Yes, healing and fighting were much easier to focus on. Scout Harding had hopes of retaking the ramparts, he noted faintly during gossip among the soldiers he'd set to healing. He needed to find the others before they entertained thoughts of returning to Skyhold. To his knowledge, they hadn't packed for an extensive stay in the Exalted Plains, but Aslaug may change her mind once they traveled further east where most of the chaos was concentrated.

...

He found their camp four days later by nightfall. He'd assured Scout Harding that he was fine when she had found him two days earlier, likely at Aslaug's behest, and simply assisted in smaller tasks on his own. Harding would no doubt take the message to her, else he was sure he would've seen her tracking him on the back of that enormous warhorse of hers. An intimidating sight for many, and simply an unwelcome one at that point in time for him.

The area was much calmer, likely to do with his companions and the agents of the Inquisition intervening whenever necessary. 

Varric sat in between Iron Bull and Felix, and from the sound of it was sharing a tale about the Champion. Iron Bull's laugh could be heard from across a country.

Solas observed Felix closely. He didn't agree with Aslaug on the matter of simply shifting a spirit to another vessel as a way to heal a person, but the spirit clearly had its own opinion of the situation. It had left Hrathgur willingly to assist the boy. A bittersweet parting, he was sure. The spirit and the elderly man had been partners for the better part of several decades. All to help someone they barely knew.

Felix did have qualities in him to evoke real change, however. The perception of abominations, as they were colloquially known, was a poor one if not completely undeserved in light of how mages were commonly taught. They did not need to be rabid creatures bent on destruction. Felix was young, but he was compassionate and his naivete was tempered by his life experiences. His graceful acceptance of his death was nothing short of impressive. Patience was a calm spirit and sought out those alike.

He'd seen the cracks in that stalwart armor of endurance when they'd entered the Plains, however. Particularly when they witnessed Wisdom's condition. He saw now that they had recovered well. For that, he was glad. He quite enjoyed conversation with Felix – perhaps not as technical in his observations as Dorian, but he was intelligent and empathetic particularly with Patience providing additional insight.

Felix laughed at something Varric was rudely gesticulating about.

Solas couldn't see Aslaug.

Iron Bull spotted him and waved him over. As always, the qunari proved to be startlingly aware of his surroundings. “Hey, Solas. We were wondering if you were going to show up.” His expression was placid, but there was an obvious implication in his casual greeting.

Varric stopped his storytelling to send him a smile. “Chuckles! We were going to send a search party eventually. War Paint was getting antsy.”

“Yes...where is Aslaug?” he asked.

Felix, who had remained quiet, spoke up. “By the river. Where...we all parted last.” He pointed.

Solas followed the direction with a frown. “I see. Excuse me, but I need to speak with her.”

“Oh, Chuckles? Before you go? I'm sorry it went down like that. Losing friends is never easy and it's never old news.” Varric frowned. “If you ever need someone to talk to, or a funny story, I know a dwarf who can help.”

Solas managed a half smile. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. He took to his hart again and rode out to the mouth of the river.

There was a small fire, but the moon was especially bright here so he was certain even a human could see in the dark without firelight.

He dismounted and moved closer with little thought to what he was say first. It was uncomfortable to think that she was lingering where Wisdom had met its end. Not an ideal place to have such a conversation, or to even contemplate such a topic as it was too macabre for his taste -

There was dark ash, fresh from the fire pit beside her, that circled a small pile of smooth stones. They were oblong and white in appearance. River stones. He heard humming, softer and gentler than she'd sounded before. Her voice was still low, she reached the higher notes without cracking. He didn't need to understand the words of whatever she was singing. It was _warm_. It wasn't one of the battle chants she used in tandem with her strikes. It wasn't the guttural, raw vocals that were meant to conjure a line of connection between the singers and the spirits nearby. It sounded like a lullaby. A sweet song goodnight.

Her back was to him so she didn't notice him even as he got close enough to see the drawing of the three eyes on the stones. Two side by side, one above the others. Clumsy writing ringed the symbols. Both were noticeably elven. How was she even aware of what they meant - never mind how she found them.

She finished her song and sat, subdued. The silence stretched on, comfortable and still as the ripple of the water's surface.

He cleared his throat. “Aslaug?” he announced himself.

She startled with a grunt. “Solas!” she exclaimed when she spotted him and lurched to her feet. “I didn't notice you,” she said lamely.

“Yes,” he murmured in turn, but he flicked a look at the stones behind her. “I just returned and came out to find you. May I ask what you're doing?”

She waved a hand behind her. “It was meant to be a surprise for you when you came back...” she trailed off awkwardly.

Despite the strange tension, he felt himself begin to smile. “And so I have. May I enquire again after the surprise...?”

She sucked on her lower lip briefly and her heavy brows fell. “A guidepost. I mentioned it to you before. It is a way to show a spirit the way home.”

His smile fell. “This was not its home.”

“The guidepost connects to people, not a place. A place just...it's just a way through.”

“This is meant for Wisdom, correct? Then why would you choose this place of all places? For convenience's sake?” he asked crisply. A burn turned into an ache at her thoughtlessness. It burrowed into his chest and wriggled like a worm.

“Don't take that tone with me,” she snapped back. “If you would listen I'll tell you.”

Solas motioned exaggeratedly for her to continue. His lips drew in thinly.

“This place will remember you and it. Places don't forget,” she began.

“Yes. And so it will be its death you deigned to have as its saluter?” This was not the conversation he'd wanted to have, but she was making this nearly unbearable.

“I am trying to explain.” She glared at him and he relented even if the reflex to verbalize his hurt at her thoughtless action still remained. “It isn't just a place of death or pain. You heard it in the land of dreams, calling to you for aid. You answered it. You came.”

“In time to fail Wisdom, yes, I do recall.” His voice dropped, flint striking rock.

She ignored him and continued to speak. “You offered solace and relief. Freedom. Your friend was and will be Wisdom. Wouldn't a spirit of wisdom look to that as its last moments instead of what was inflicted on it?”

He closed his eyes. “The moments before that will still exist. As you said yourself, places do not forget.”

“It will know that through the guidepost – but it will lead to you, and it will know what you were to it once before. It will see the light in the dark. It will _know_ you again, Solas,” she beseeched.

“Did you not think that feeling a previous death might be traumatic?” he questioned.

“Death does not need to be traumatic. Not with a guide,” she pointed to the arrangement behind her. “It's what guideposts do. They tell a story about someone that meant something to the spirit, and they guide them from those last moments to better ones. They don't welcome them to a place. _They_ _welcome them home_ , Solas.” And then she pointed at him.

Oh. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, I see.” He approached the stones and crouched down beside them to carefully regard the words. _Andaran atish'an_ , they said. “How did you know?” He felt dazed, caught in a loop of stirring emotion. The impatience and frustration burned away cleanly to leave gratitude and a dizzying rush of affection, a crest like high tide lapping at the docks. An imperfect solution, but one sincerely meant. A gesture of genuine emotion offered not simply out of fondness, but recognition of his loss.

“There's a Dalish clan nearby. I asked for assistance in return for a favor. They wrote it out for me so I could copy it. Patience and Felix knew what symbol to use,” she explained.

“Thank you,” he said. Beneath the gratitude, beneath the affection, something begged to surface. Like the driftwood that remained from a ship wreck. All the little things that were pieces of a larger construction, even unknown to him. It was easier to speak, to act in the Fade than it was here. But she drew it out of him here, made his efforts simpler. He was still unsure if he was at ease with that. She made crossing the line unnoticeable in certain aspects.

He stood and even in the cooler night of the Plains, he could see the slight glisten of sweat on her. Heat poured off of her. He reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder, thumb at her neck. She froze and her eyes widened. The moon behind her showed the smudges of her paint and the tangle of her hair with a stark white light. “Thank you so much for this.” He tilted the slope of his forehead to rest against hers. She was so very warm. “It was unexpected.” She was unexpected. But not unwanted, no. He had vacillated between discomfort and secure in denial for a long while. Too long, perhaps.

This would not end well, but it was quite impossible to deny himself and her, and this direction toward sorrow they both seemed intent on. The path not taken was too difficult to refuse. And he was weak, and selfish.

Her mouth didn't move beneath his immediately. Her bottom lip was fuller than it looked at first glance, probably because of her often closed off, default expression. It caught him like a hook to a fish, and he was lured in, in, in. She responded nearly voraciously. There was an obscene smacking sound that would have otherwise been ridiculous if she hadn't moved into him eagerly. One hand found the center of his chest and the other clutched at his bicep. He fanned out his fingers along her neck. He slid knuckles up the middle of her back to find the space between her shoulders. She let out a pleased groan and he broke away to breathe. Their heads touched, as what was becoming their custom, as they caught their breath.

On the heels of grief, he felt joy. In the wake of despair, he was brought euphoria. He should have felt guilt in such an instance and he should have reprimanded himself for allowing an occurrence in a place where Wisdom had died. For the moment however, he floated in the comfort of Aslaug's spiritual belief. He would later, undoubtedly, bask in guilt as it was his nature. He hadn't wanted...anyone like this in such a long time. An equal, because she had been for some time. As real as the mountains she came from. This wasn't simply something that sprouted from simple loneliness. She was too much, all of what he needed at this moment and wanted, and in the end he would be the very antithesis of happiness for her.

Perhaps she would curse him one day as the Dalish did. But he would earn her ire – something that brought him no glee, only resigned dejection. That was neither here nor there, however. He focused on the present; he had to while he had time, if only to take these moments with him.

He was weary of showing an eon's worth of restraint in front of her as she thrived in her undomesticated, unrefined manner so boisterously. Her hair swallowed them when she pushed a little closer. “Was that a thank you?” she asked laughingly. It was a low, booming sound that came from her midsection.

It was such an honest sound. “In part,” he returned with amusement. “But it is because I am saying yes. Time will not be on our side. If, that is, you still wish to court me at all.” He loosened his grip but kept his hands where they were should she wish to slip away.

She jerked back. “Are you...?”

“I understand if you've rethought your position on the matter. This will not end well. The backlash alone due to our positions -”

“Why would I stop wanting you?” she wondered aloud, as if that was quite possibly the stupidest thing she'd ever heard from him.

“I have been...reticent. By asking someone to wait until I am ready, I accepted that you might lose interest or take it as a rejection.” He'd even hoped for it initially. All while basking in the unfettered attraction she bestowed on him.

“Solas,” she let out a little bark of laughter. “Did I ever look like I lost interest?”

A cluster unfurled in his breast, trailed down and followed where his blood flowed. Warmth lit his being at her sincerity. He would have thought her as the aggressor, but her mouth was pliable beneath his, comfortable to go at the pace he set and to follow his lead. He breathed her in, absorbed that unapologetic nature she exuded even in her moderation. The wilder shores called and he went willingly.  
  


 


End file.
